


After the Funeral

by Mint_and_Cinnamon



Series: The Many Faces of Sansa Stark [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon - TV, Canon Divergence after S05E06, Dark!Sansa, F/M, Impending Ice Zombie Apocalypse, Manipulation, None of these relationships are set in stone, Older Man/Younger Woman, Other, Political Marriage, Political Negotiation WOOO, Securing Power, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:51:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4269198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mint_and_Cinnamon/pseuds/Mint_and_Cinnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After successfully avoiding Stannis Baratheon's attempts to marry her off, Sansa rules alone as the Lady of Winterfell. But her position is far from secure: her lords do not think she can rule without a husband, the Lannisters are still determined to bring her down, and there are wildlings - and worse - coming from beyond the Wall. When Petyr Baelish arrives in Winterfell with an offer she can't refuse, Sansa is forced to choose between the chance to re-unite her family and her own freedom.</p><p>Will she always be a pawn in the game of thrones, or can she finally become a player?</p><p> </p><p>A sequel to my previous fic, After the Siege, and the third and final part in this series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! Ask and you shall receive: this is the sequel to After the Siege and the final part in my Sansa Stark series. Hope you guys enjoy it - and I'm totally not sorry for sneaking that Godfather reference into the summary - and please don't hesitate to leave a comment, I love hearing your feedback!
> 
> Enjoy!

Not too long ago, Lord Eddard’s solar had served as Stannis Baratheon’s war room. Even though the self-proclaimed king and his generals had left weeks ago, it still looked much as it did when they had commandeered it. A large table sat in the centre of the room, covered in scrolls, maps and a few enormous tomes borrowed from the maester’s records.

Sansa sat at the head of the table, staring down at the message she had just received.

Petyr Baelish had found out about Sansa’s blockade of the Neck. She had no idea how – it was difficult to even find the crannogmen, let alone get them to tell their secrets – but he had found it out all the same.

His ship had just landed in Whiteharbour, and he had sent her a raven telling her that he would be arriving in less than two weeks. His letter was kind and courteous, expressing his condolences over the loss of her husband – and, of her husband-to-be – but she was no fool.

Littlefinger’s spies were everywhere, even in Winterfell. He had not expected her to take back the North, or to see off the Baratheons, and now he was coming to see just how much of a threat she really was.

Sansa got to her feet, stretching. Still clutching the message, she paced around her father’s solar, the hem of her dress brushing against the legs of the enormous table.

She could see little from the mullioned windows. The snows had been coming thick and fast for weeks now, letting her see nothing of the castle courtyard but the dim shapes of the distant walls that surrounded it. She could not remember a time when the windows had not been fogged up from the heat of the castle – even though it was so cold in the solar that her breath turned to mist in the air.

She shivered, and went to stand over by the fire.

Littlefinger’s letter was not the first of its kind she had received. Everyone in the North from lords to hedge knights had been sending her ravens, pledging their fealty and announcing their intent to visit her. And the Northerners were not the only ones who had contacted her. She had letters from the lords of the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and even a few discreetly smuggled words from the Tyrells – evidently, their arrangement with the Lannisters was not working out as well as they had hoped. Just yesterday she had received a note in Robin Arryn’s childish hand, asking her if she would receive him.

They were all coming for the same reasons.

Mere months ago, she had been locked in a room and repeatedly raped by the Bolton boy. Now, she was the Lady of Winterfell, having taken back the North, ransacked the Dreadfort and sent Stannis Baratheon’s forces on their way after securing their support and handing them their victory in the North.

She was easily the most powerful woman in the North – and easily the most vulnerable. And, of course, she was unwed.

Sansa was under no illusions. She could not stay unwed for long, but she intended to remain so for as long as possible. She had had quite enough of husbands and engagements, but it was that part of the arrangements that Petyr Baelish and his ilk were personally looking to change.

But she had far more to worry about than marriage. She did not know how long winter would last – it was no longer coming, it had arrived – and no way of knowing how many mouths she would have to feed. Then, there was the issue of the Lannisters; just because one army had been defeated did not mean that Cersei would stop trying to kill her. And then, there were her brothers – and, Brienne told her, her sister too – who had been seen wondering all the Seven Kingdoms, with no way for her to find them. She could not send men out after them. She needed to cut off all other routes into the North to keep out the Lannisters, and no man would be able to bring her siblings back if she blockaded all the ports. Besides, if she sent men out in this weather they would never come back again.

The snow was falling thick and fast. It was blowing in on the wind, rattling the windows on the north side of the solar. Outside her window, all she could see was white.

Wherever her siblings were, she hoped they were warm.

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, if her letters were not too confidential, she would allow Princess Shireen to sit in the solar with her and help with her correspondence. Shireen would sit at her right hand, leaning forward on the table, cupping her grey cheek in one hand as they talked over the news the ravens had brought them.

She always brought Wylla with her – Sansa did not think she liked going around the castle without her, now that her father and his soldiers had left – but Sansa did not mind. The ravens’ tower was guarded at all times, and Wylla never saw anything that Sansa did not want her to see. Even if she was passing messages to Stannis Baratheon, it would not work against her.

Now, Shireen sat at the table, huddled in rich brown foxfurs, and peered down at Robin Arryn’s letter.

“Robin Arryn is my cousin, Princess,” Sansa explained, “and he is Lord of the Vale. He is not yet a man grown; he is perhaps a year or two older than you.”

Shireen looked up, interested. “Is he? I did not think one could be a great lord at thirteen years old.”

Sansa smiled. “He is Lord of the Vale in name only, Princess. His late mother’s husband, Lord Baelish, is his Protector. When Robin is old enough, he will become a proper lord, but for now he has many things to learn. Now, what should we say to him?”

Shireen thought for a moment, pursing her lips together. She always did that when she was thinking, and Sansa hated it – it made her look far too much like her mother.

“It would be nice to see your cousin,” she said, hesitantly.

“Yes, it would. But Robin is young, and when he travels he must be accompanied by a good many knights. The roads will be especially treacherous now that winter has come, and the journey to Winterfell will not be easy.”

Realisation dawned in Shireen’s eyes. “Would it be dangerous for him to come north?”

Sansa sighed. “We have no way of knowing, Princess. If the winter is a short one, perhaps not, but we will never know how long winter lasts for until the day it ends. But you are right, it could well be dangerous. Young lords and ladies are always vulnerable without their parents to guide them, and if Robin left the Vale untended in the depths of winter, someone could take it from him.”

Shireen’s eyes widened. “But who would do something like that?”

“A very unscrupulous man, Princess,” she said, thinking immediately of Petyr Baelish.

Shireen frowned down at the message again. “But won’t he get offended if we tell him not to come? What if he thinks we don’t want to see him?”

“ _Would_ you like to see him?”

Shireen blushed, but said nothing.

“You are quite right, Princess. It is very important to remain courteous when dealing with lords and ladies; if we offend them, we could make a powerful enemy indeed.”

Shireen frowned again. “Father says courtesies are for liars and cowards.”

 _And when your father first called his banners and declared himself king,_ Sansa thought, _only a handful of men came to his side._

She kept her thoughts to herself, as she always did. “It is a little different for a king,” she explained, “they can settle their scores on the battlefield. We ladies must resort to other means. So, what shall we say to cousin Robin?”

Shireen pursed her lips again. “Could we invite him to Winterfell later on – perhaps when the snows have lifted?”

Sansa smiled. “An excellent notion. He will need to stay in his lands in the Vale and lead his people through the winter, but once the snows have melted I should dearly love to see Sweetrobin again.”

Sansa wrote the letter. She chose her words carefully – Robin had always been quick to take offence – but she made sure to impress the importance of staying in the Vale upon him. With the bond of blood between them, Robin was always going to be her ally, and she would much rather have a useful friend governing the Vale than a snivelling boy who let his lords run his lands for him. Hopefully, enduring a winter in the Vale would teach him how to rule and win him a few allies of his own – and could potentially weaken Lord Baelish’s control over the lands.

Shireen stared at the message. Colour flared in her one good cheek. “Is he sweet?”

Sansa wondered how many boys her own age Shireen had actually met. She would meet a good deal more, if Stannis were to become king.

She smiled. “Yes, Princess.”

* * *

 

 

The Night’s Watch had sent her a message. It was nothing out of the ordinary; as always, they were simply asking for more men and arms to guard the Wall. She could not afford to give them much. With the Lannisters planning another assault, she would need all the men and arms she could muster. The most she would be able to give them was a handful of men caught stealing from the Winterfell stores.

She wrote the letter with a heavy heart, guilt prickling at the back of her neck. Her father had always said that the Night’s Watch was a noble calling – he would not have sent them Jon, if he had not thought so – but her position was still uncertain. The letter was addressed to Lord Bolton, and she signed it off as Lady Stark, but that was all the pleasure she took in sending that particular message on its way.

There was much to be done, and little time to do it. After she had sent off her message to the Night’s Watch, she sent letters to all the lords with coastal lands and told them to post lookouts all along the shore. She made a point of seeking out Lord Manderley – an enormously fat man of sixty years – and telling him that she should alert the port authorities in Whiteharbour to the possibility of a Lannister invasion. She toyed with the idea of taking a leaf out of her first husband’s book and stringing a chain beneath the waters, ready to smash any unsuspecting warships, but decided against it. The chain would reduce a fleet to splinters, but it would do the same for any trading galleys that approached it.

It was a risk, but if she did not take it her people could starve.

One small blessing was that the case of wildfire that the crannogmen had salvaged from the Lannisters’ first invasion attempt had finally arrived in Winterfell. Lord Reed’s representatives – all of them strange, small men with watchful eyes – had come into the castle at daybreak, all of them riding on an enormous wagon. It was covered with a thick sheet of waxed canvas that was already laden with snow, and when they had lifted it aside she had been surprised to see yet more snow beneath it. The only thing the wagon carried was one enormous, iron chest, surrounded with layers and layers of tightly packed snow to prevent it from moving. It had taken all six of Lord Reed’s men to lift it from the wagon and stow the chest safely in the Winterfell crypts, and it was only when Sansa had sent them on their way – their wagon now loaded with furs, wood and cured meat in exchange – that she allowed herself to unlock the chest.

The metal lid was so heavy that simply lifting it made the muscles in her arms shake uncontrollably. Inside the chest were hundreds of bottles, each one no bigger than her fist and filled with a bright green liquid. They were tightly packed together in many wooden trays, the gaps between each bottle filled with sand, each tray separated by a layer of waxed canvas. Evidently, the substance was highly volatile; too much movement would set it alight.

Sansa closed the lid and locked it, smiling to herself. That would be extremely useful; all a soldier would need to do would be to throw a bottle at an enemy and the wildfire would ignite. It could also be very dangerous; she would have to make sure that the wildfire was not discovered. Fortunately, the iron chest was large enough to fit a grown man inside, and her father’s bones had not yet been returned to Winterfell. All she would have to do would be to make sure that people saw her weeping when she left the crypts – and occasionally take in a few blue winter roses – and her smallfolk would never suspect that the iron chest contained anything other than her late father’s remains.

Just the thought of the deception made her skin crawl, but she had no other choice. Littlefinger’s spies were already in Winterfell, and she did not want him to know what weapons she had in her arsenal.

When she left the crypts, she made sure she was seen crying. All it took were a few discreet words with a servant about arranging a statue of Lord Eddard for the crypts at winter’s end, and the rumour had already spread around the castle by the time she sat down to her midday meal. Several of the Northern lords joined her, and every single one of them expressed their condolences, and asked to pay their respects.

She smiled, and passed a dish of bread along the table. “I would be glad to do so, my lords, but only after winter ends. My father was always a dutiful man, and we will have much to prepare for. He would hate to think we were neglecting our duties to our smallfolk on his account, especially in such a harsh winter.”

They smiled at her. Their smiles were kind, but she knew better than to think their kindness came without a price.

A young serving-girl came in through a side door. She caught her eye instantly, and moved along the back of the high table, until she stood just behind Sansa. She bent down, and whispered in her ear.

“Milady,” she hissed, “Lord Baelish is at the gates.”

Sansa’s smile vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it - and as always, keep the feedback coming, I really appreciate it!

Sansa made sure that Brienne was standing by her side when Lord Baelish was shown into the Great Hall. She had been training when they arrived, but Sansa had flatly refused to see Lord Baelish without her. Now, Brienne stood at her right hand, a thin sheen of sweat still glistening on her forehead, her hand curled around the hilt of her sword. She was not the only armed knight in the room. A few of the Northern lords lingered there, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords, watching the doorway and waiting.

Lord Baelish had come with several mounted knights.

Sansa sat on the dais in the lord’s chair, her face a mask, her hands clasped in her lap. She was careful not to let her emotions show on her face, but the palms of her hands were already slippery with sweat.

The door swung open.

Petyr Baelish walked in. He looked just as he always did – slim and slight, in a way that reminded her of a long, thin dagger. The only concession he had made to the cold was a large, dark brown fur cloak; otherwise he was dressed in his customary high-necked black tunic, the silver mockingbird glittering at his throat.

He smiled when he saw her. It did not reach his eyes, but then again, it never did.

“Lady Sansa,” he said, inclining his head towards her.

“That’s Lady Stark, Baelish,” Brienne snapped, “you ought not to be so familiar.”

Sansa fought to keep pride from flashing in her eyes. She wondered if Littlefinger could tell that she was trying to hide it.

“My apologies, Lady Stark,” he said, his green-grey eyes carefully trained on her. “I must confess, I did not know what to call you when I arrived. You were Lady Bolton not so long ago.”

Sansa smiled. “That’s quite all right, Lord Baelish. A great many things have happened since we last saw each other, a little confusion would be inevitable.”

She saw it then, the tiniest flicker of anger in Petyr Baelish’s eyes. He hid it well, his smile never leaving his face for a moment.

“You shall have to tell me of them, Lady Stark. I must confess, I had heard some terrible rumours on my trip north. I was quite concerned for your safety – but I suppose all doting uncles must care for their nieces.”

“In my experience, doting uncles do not usually travel with quite so many armed knights.”

He spread his hands and shrugged, the smile never leaving his face. “These are dangerous times, my lady. It would be foolish indeed to attempt to strike out on our own, in these unhappy days.”

Sansa’s hands clenched before she could stop them. Was he threatening her?

“You are quite right,” she said, keeping her face still, “winter has never suffered fools gladly.”

He gave her a small nod, his eyes still trained on hers. For a moment, Sansa was reminded of a serpent some hedge knight had thought to bring to Joffrey’s court. It had sat coiled in the middle of the throne room, frozen, its lifeless eyes never leaving its handler’s face. Then, just as Joffrey was beginning to tire of it, it had struck, darting forward and sinking its long fangs into the man’s leg. He had died screaming, and Joffrey had laughed.

Littlefinger had those serpent’s eyes – silent, still, and fathomless.

She steeled herself. “To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?”

“I simply heard about your misfortunes and wished to console you, my lady. To lose a husband and a fiancé so soon – I know something of how terrible this pain can be.”

This time, she forced herself to keep her hands from curling into fists. His snake’s eyes were still trained on her, and in that moment, she knew exactly what he suspected her of. Of course, he was quite right – she _was_ responsible for their deaths, in one way or another – but she had no intention of letting anyone know that.

She smiled. “That is good of you, Lord Baelish. You are welcome here, of course – but tell me, how long do you plan on staying?”

His eyes flickered down her body, just for a fraction of a second. She knew he had let her see it, and it was enough to make her skin crawl.

“As long as you will have me, my lady.”

* * *

 

 

She did what she could to keep Littlefinger and his men under control.

She instructed his men to leave all their weapons in the armoury. Every last sword and dagger was locked away – and she had the men searched too, for good measure. She doubled the guard on the ravens’ tower, and on all the gates leading in and out of Winterfell. She never stopped anyone from leaving, only made sure that she knew who left. She made a half-hearted attempt to make Littlefinger feel welcome – she gave him good rooms, with plenty of furs for his bed and plenty of wood for his fire – but she made sure that they were always guarded, and as far from her own rooms as it was possible to get.

She did not want to find herself alone with him.

She had never trusted him, not even before she had learned not to trust people. The second he had taken her away from King’s Landing – away from the endless web of spies – he had made his intentions clear. She had suffered through his kisses and when she had confronted him, he shipped her off to the Boltons.

She wondered if he had chosen the Bolton boy on purpose. It would not surprise her if he had. Perhaps he had chosen Ramsay precisely _for_ his cruelty, in the hope that he would teach her not to try and play their game. Littlefinger had protested his ignorance of the Bolton boy’s behaviour, but she found that difficult to believe. If his spies were in Winterfell now, surely they had been in Winterfell when the Boltons were the castle’s masters – unless they had simply grown up out of the damp, like mushrooms.

Brienne was her constant companion, now. Sansa had told her sworn shield that it would be as good as a betrayal to leave her alone with Littlefinger, and Brienne had taken those words to heart. She stood at Sansa’s side when she sat in judgement in the Great Hall. She loomed over the table when Sansa ate her meals, glaring at the food-tasters in turn. She had even tried to drag a straw pallet into Sansa’s room, announcing her intention to sleep there in full armour, but that was when Sansa had put her foot down. Brienne had settled for an adjoining room – only separated from Sansa’s by a rather flimsy-looking door – and slept in boiled leathers, instead.

Sansa had done what she could.

She wondered if it was going to work.

He seemed to be everywhere she turned. If she sat in judgement in the Great Hall, he would loiter by the top table, muttering to the other lords. If she held council in the lord’s chambers, he would come to her with some piece of news and find ways to linger. The only place she had any peace from him was in the crypts, and that was only because Brienne stood guard outside whenever she ventured in. He was worse than Ser Harys – at least her late fiancé had been loud enough to hear him coming. Littlefinger moved on silent feet, and the thought of nobody hearing him sneaking into her chambers made her shiver.

He was with her now, as she sat in the Great Hall with her lords for the midday meal. She had invited a few of the smallfolk to join her, just as her father had once done. Sat at her right was a three-fingered stonemason named Harren. He had a very square face that had been scrubbed bright pink. Sansa knew that look well – it was the look of someone unaccustomed to keeping themselves clean who had panicked at the thought of a lordly summons. The panic was still visible on his face. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he kept his eyes firmly on his food.

Littlefinger, of course, had managed to worm his way into the seat on her left-hand side.

“Tell me, Harren,” she said, breaking off a piece of bread and passing the loaf along the table, “did my lord father ever invite you to break bread with him? I feel as though I must have seen you before.”

Harren blushed and tried to swallow a very large mouthful of broth. His face twisted as he did so; he must have burned his tongue.

“No, milady,” he mumbled, “he asked my brother, Brynden.”

She smiled. “Of course! That must have been when he thought to repair the Broken Tower.”

Harren reached for a horn of ale. As he took it, a little slopped over the edge, and he blushed. “That’s right, milady.”

“I was very sorry that had to be set aside,” she mused, slicing up a piece of chicken, “I should have liked to see the Broken Tower rebuilt – but I suppose that would be quite an endeavour.”

“Begging your pardon, milady, but it ain’t so big of a job. It’d need a lot of men, but there’s plenty who’d want the work.”

“But wouldn’t you need to teach them your trade, before you could begin?”

Littlefinger leaned forward. “My lady, you need not concern yourself with mason’s talk. Any man can built a castle; they spring up all across the Seven Kingdoms when great lords get complacent.”

Harren shuffled back on his chair, looking extremely embarrassed. Irritation flared up inside her.

“I’m sure you’re right, Lord Baelish. Any man can _build_ a castle, but few men can build a castle that stands strong. It takes untold amounts of skill.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harren smiling.

“To be sure,” he murmured, “I simply meant that it must take more skill to carve a delicate statue than to build a mighty fortress. I’d wager Harren here would not trust the building of your father’s statue to any of his apprentices.”

She had not told him about the arrival of the chest. Evidently, he had already heard the rumour that Lord Eddard’s bones had been returned to Winterfell; clearly, his spies had wasted no time.

Harren fixed her with an earnest stare. “No, milady, I wouldn’t do that! I’d see to it myself.”

She was about to reply, her smile already in place, when a serving-girl leant down and whispered in her ear.

“Milady,” she hissed, “the Lord Commander Snow and his men are here to see you.”

Sansa stared at her. “The Night’s Watch are here? Whatever for?”

The serving-girl bit her lip, looking worried. “They didn’t say, milady. Shall I show ’em in?”

Littlefinger leaned forward. His eyes were still trained on her, and there was a look on his face she did not like. It was nothing that she could pin down, but she distrusted him nevertheless.

“Don’t trouble yourself with the Watch, my lady,” he murmured, “doubtless they have come to beg for more men, or more food from your stores. Lord Commander or no, no base-born boy can march in and demand the Lady of Winterfell’s attention.”

“I don’t think that would be wise, Lord Baelish –” she began, just as the door swung open.

A small group of men dressed in black hurried into the room. One strode well ahead of the rest, his long, pale face curiously taut as his dark eyes scanned the top table. His mop of dark curls kept falling into his eyes, but he did not seem to care. He was dressed entirely in black – but unlike the rest of the black brothers, who were clad in blacks so worn they looked almost grey, his clothes looked strong, sturdy, and well-cared for. The only colour about him was the white snow still dusted across his black fur cape, and the white pommel of his sword. His dark eyes scanned the top table, almost frantically, and came to rest on her.

He stopped.

He was staring at her. Gradually, all the noise in the room died away as she rose to her feet.

She walked around the top table, her heart beating very fast. Nerves were broiling in the pit of her stomach like writhing snakes, although why she could not say.

She was staring at him, so much that her eyes were beginning to ache. Somehow every step she took did not feel real to her, and she could not suppress the childish thought that if she were to take her eyes off him, he might disappear.

At last, she came around the other side of the table. There seemed to be acres of space between them, and for a moment, she hesitated, unsure of what to say.

She could still remember the last time she had thought she had seen her family. She had been wrong, and it had hurt so much…

“Jon?”

Her voice broke when she said his name.

He crossed the room in two strides and pulled her into a hug so tight that she thought her ribs would crack. He was here, he was _real_ , just as strong and earnest as he had ever been, and he was holding her so tightly it was as though all the things she had suffered were being wrung right out of her like water from a cloth.

She was laughing now, and crying, or perhaps some strange mixture of the two – she was not sure. She clung to him, her throat aching, her eyes stinging, but she did not care.

“It’s you,” she wept, still laughing, “by the gods, Jon! I never thought I’d see you again!”

They pulled apart, but not far – he held her at arms’ length, his hands still on her shoulders. His eyes scanned every inch of her face, as though he was checking for bruises, and as she looked up at him she was suddenly struck by how old he seemed. There were large dark circles under his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks, scars that had not been there when she had seen him last, and a long scratch on his temple that had not yet healed.

She was surprised – she had always expected him to end up looking like her father, but she could not see much of a resemblance.

She beamed up at him, still sniffing, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“The Boltons,” he rasped, “what did they do?”

“They’re dead, Jon. I’m well.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, and he pulled her into another embrace.

“You’ve grown so much,” he muttered, burying his face in her hair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter - strap in, this one's a long one :P Hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks for all your feedback, and don't forget to keep it coming - I love hearing what you guys think!

Her joy at Jon’s arrival did not last long.

It was not that she was not glad to see him. They had never been close while her parents had been alive – her mother had been far too protective of her reputation to want her too near him. In fact, they had not spoken much at all, as Jon had always been much more interested in playing swords with Robb and Arya. But now Robb was dead, and the rest of her siblings scattered, and a familiar face brought her more happiness than she thought was possible.

He would not stay.

He was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and could not stay away from the Wall for long; that was his place, especially in the depths of winter. Evidently, things at the Wall were very bad – all the black brothers were covered in fresh cuts and bruises, some limping heavily as they went. She had wanted to throw a feast to celebrate their arrival, but Jon had outright refused.

“It’s not right, Sansa,” he said, as they sat by the fire in her father’s solar, each nursing a cup of wine. The shadow of her long table loomed out behind them, casting strange shapes across the floor.

“Can’t I celebrate my brother’s return?” she asked, trying not to let her bottom lip jut out, “it’s been so long since our family has been reunited. It’s the first thing worth celebrating in years, Jon.”

He shook his head. “I can’t stay, you know that. The brothers didn’t even want me to come down at all. Things are bad, Sansa. Winter is coming.”

She let out a snort of laughter. “Have you seen the snows? Winter is _here_.”

The fire snapped in the grate. Jon fixed her with a very serious look.

“No. It isn’t.”

Panic fluttered in her stomach. “You…you don’t know that. No man knows how long winter will last until it has ended. You cannot truly know how bad it will be.”

“It’s going to get worse.”

He threw another log on the fire and held his hands out toward the flames. There was a long silence.

“I’ve been beyond the Wall,” he rasped. “There are things out there. They’re coming south. They’ll bring the cold with them.”

Sansa frowned. “What things? Not wildlings?”

He let out a mirthless laugh. “I wish it were only wildlings. It’s worse.”

She sipped her wine, her eyes narrowing. She did not speak, letting the silence billow around them. It was a tactic that served her well; Jon sought to fill it.

“Do you remember Old Nan’s stories? The ones Bran used to like, the ones that gave you nightmares?”

Sansa frowned into her wine, thinking hard. “The ones about the Long Night, and the Land of Always Winter?”

Jon nodded, still staring into the fire. “Not all of them. Only the ones about the great cold warriors, riding dark beasts and leading armies of the dead.”

He looked up at her.

“They’re true.”

Sansa froze. It took her a moment to realise that her mouth had fallen open, and the wine in her goblet was dangerously close to spilling over the edge. She set it down hurriedly, smoothing out her skirts and avoiding Jon’s gaze.

“Be serious, Jon. There’s nothing beyond the Wall but snow, isn’t there?”

He glared at her. “And how would you know that?”

She blushed.

“I’ve seen them, Sansa,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, “all the brothers have. I would not have come here only to lie to you. They are real, as is their army.”

Sansa stared into the fire.

“They’re coming south,” Jon continued, “heading for the Wall. They travel with an army of wights – you remember, corpses that walk – and they’ll drag the dead out of their graves as they pass. The wildlings have known about them for years; it’s why they’ve been trying to cross over the Wall. I let them pass, once I saw the Others’ army.”

Her head snapped up. “You let the wildlings through the Wall?”

“It was my only path,” he said, his chin jutting out in the way it always had when he was being stubborn. “If I had not, they would have joined the army of the dead. There would have been hundreds of thousands of corpses heading south.”

“But…but Jon, they’re _wildlings_!”

“They’re led by a friend, of sorts,” he muttered. “His name is Tormund Giantsbane, and he gave me his word his people would behave honourably. He swore before a heart tree that he would take the hands off anyone who broke the laws of men. I doubt he’ll need to: most of them are women and children.”

“What happened to the men?”

“They didn’t run fast enough.”

Sansa dragged her chair a little closer to the fire, shivering. If Jon had let wildlings pass through the Wall, he must have seen something awful in the Land of Always Winter. Nothing else could have compelled him to break every oath he had sworn.

Jon leaned forward. “Only three things can harm them: fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel. Get plenty of wood, and if anyone dies, make sure you burn the bodies.”

She nodded. “I’ll send men out into the wolfswood tomorrow; we’ll need more. If only the Lannisters hadn’t melted down father’s sword…”

Jon looked crestfallen. “They destroyed Ice?”

“Remade it, into two smaller swords. Neither of them will be its equal.”

Jon’s face softened a little. He reached into his many layers of furs, and from the depths of his cloak pulled out a long, thin package wrapped in old cloth. He handed it to her, and she unwrapped it carefully. Inside lay a thin, tapered spire – but whether it was made of polished black stone, or clouded black glass, she could not tell.

“It’s a dragonglass candle,” he said, “Maester Aemon had it in his chambers, and Sam says he doesn’t know how to use it. Take it.”

“Do you know how to light it?”

Jon shrugged. “Not what I’d use it for. If you find yourself close to one of the White Walkers, stick ’em with the pointy end.”

She tucked the dragonglass candle away. For a moment, Jon looked incredibly sad. She laid a hand on his arm and smiled.

“Thank you, Jon.”

* * *

 

 

Jon left the next day, taking Winterfell’s prisoners with him.

She waved him off from the battlements, with Shireen and Brienne by her side, but he had barely gone a hundred yards before he was completely obscured by the falling snows. The Northern lords stood along the battlements as well, each of them glancing towards her with narrowed eyes.

They were not pleased.

She had agreed to take the wildlings into Winterfell. According to Jon, there were not many of them – only a few hundred – and most of them were women and children. If she turned them away, the White Walkers would kill every last one, and make their corpses march on Winterfell.

Her lords did not believe her when she had told them of the news from beyond the Wall. Lord Manderley had sat her down and explained to her, with a very fatherly look in his eye, that although he knew she meant well, wildlings were not to be trusted. The Greatjon, of House Umber, had outright laughed, and told her that time beyond the Wall did strange things to men’s heads, and that she should not believe a word of her bastard brother’s tales. Lord Karstark had marched up to her in her solar, slammed his fist down on the long table, and asked if she was mad.

She had sent them all away with a smile and a promise to think about their advice. It had worked for Lord Manderley and the Greatjon, but they were the exceptions. Lord Karstark had gathered up his men and left for Karhold, just before Jon had departed for the Wall. The rest of the Northern lords looked at her with outright contempt, and if they spoke to her, asked only of when she would choose a husband. Sometimes, it seemed as though the Reeds were her only allies. She had sent a message back with the crannogmen, asking Lord Howland Reed to come to Winterfell, but so far she had heard nothing but the scoffing of her northern lords.

They thought her a foolish child for believing her brother. In their eyes, the sooner she took a husband, the sooner someone else could fix her mistakes. Sometimes – when she tried to sleep and saw only death behind her eyes – she wondered if they were right.

She was not sure if she believed Jon’s news herself, but she was no longer naive enough to take chances.

The dragonglass candle was tucked safely up her sleeve. She had promised Jon she would keep it with her always, but she had to be careful; if she bent her hand too far backwards, it would slip out of her sleeve altogether. She had only to flex her wrist and it would fall into the palm of her hand, ready for her to use.

Jon had helped her sharpen the point, so that if she needed it, it would work just as well against an enemy of flesh and blood.

Brienne laid a hand on her shoulder and Sansa flinched.

“Shall we go in now, my lady?”

Sansa shook her head a little, blinking rapidly. The snowstorm was closing in fast – all she could see of the houses in Winter Town was a cluster of dark shapes – and by her side, Shireen was shivering, shrugging her shoulders and pulling her neck down into her fur cloak like a turtle.

“Yes, of course. Princess, will you take my arm?”

Shireen tucked her hand into the crook of Sansa’s elbow and together, they headed down from the battlements. Brienne followed, and the rest of the Northern lords fell in behind them as they passed. They all headed for the keep, anxious to get out of the cold. Once they were inside, Shireen scuttled off to find Wylla, and Sansa made for the stairs.

Littlefinger appeared at her elbow. She did not see him coming – he had not been on the battlements with them – and for a split second it seemed as though he had stepped right out of the shadows.

“A moment, Lady Stark?”

Sansa fought to keep her smile in place. Sensing her discomfort, Brienne stepped forward, her hand already wrapped around the hilt of her sword. “Lady Stark is busy, Lord Baelish. If you wish her to hear your concerns, you may voice them when she holds an audience in the Great Hall with the rest of them.”

Littlefinger did not appear to hear her. He kept his eyes on Sansa.

“There is a matter of a very…sensitive nature I wish to address, my lady. I do not think it would be prudent to discuss it in the Great Hall.”

Brienne’s lips pressed together in a thin, white line. Sansa laid a hand on her arm.

“You are so good to think of my concerns, Lord Baelish. I think I can delay giving audience for a moment.”

Brienne said nothing, but fixed Sansa with a look that spoke volumes. Sansa nodded to her, and headed into a chamber just off the Great Hall with Brienne and Littlefinger in tow. Brienne closed the door behind them and for a split second, Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed.

“My lady, I had hoped to discuss this information with you in private…”

Sansa smiled affectionately at Brienne. “I trust her with my life,” she said, “we have no secrets from each other. I assure you, Lord Baelish, that anything you say to me is as good as said to Brienne.”

“Is that wise, my lady? To trust someone who spent so much time with the Kingslayer…”

Brienne stepped forward, colour creeping into her cheeks. Her fists were clenched, her armour clanking as she moved. “Are you questioning my loyalty, Littlefinger?”

Sansa raised a hand. “Brienne, please. Lord Baelish means well, I am sure. Doubtless he has forgotten that you spent your time with the Kingslayer on my mother’s orders.”

Brienne settled back into her place by the door, still blushing. Littlefinger did not look as if the event had affected him in the slightest; he had barely moved.

“Now, Lord Baelish,” she said, cradling the weight of the dragonglass candle against her arm, “what did you wish to tell me?”

“I bring news from the south. The Baratheons and Lannisters are fighting in the Riverlands. Stannis massacred the Freys and installed his general and Lady Walda at the Twins. The Blackfish held Riverrun while the Baratheon forces broke the Lannister encampment, and now they are heading down to King’s Landing. There’ll be an army waiting for them there.”

“The Lannisters?”

Littlefinger shook his head. “Cersei restored the Faith Militant and broke her alliance with the Tyrells. Margery and Loras are imprisoned and awaiting trial, as is Cersei herself. The Faith will meet Stannis on the field, unless Kevan Lannister kills them first.”

Sansa thought of the golden-haired, imperious queen – always so knowing, always smirking – locked away in a cell. She stared at him. “Cersei? Imprisoned?”

He nodded. “She only has one child living, poor soul. The Dornish Sand Snakes killed the little princess, and Cersei is half-mad with grief.”

Sansa tried to picture Cersei grieving. She supposed she must have wept over Joffrey’s death – he had always been her favourite – but somehow, she could not quite imagine her doing it. Cersei had always seemed so composed, so in control; the thought of her mask slipping was almost unnerving.

“I hear other whispers as well,” Littlefinger said, his voice low, “from across the Narrow Sea. Tales of dragons, slaves, and dwarves – all of them heading west. And there are many more things I could uncover, if you wished it of me.”

Sansa steeled herself. She had known that eventually, Littlefinger would ask something of her. Now, it seemed as though he was finally getting to the point.

“How very generous of you.”

“I hear a good many things, Lady Stark. Rumours, most of them, but some of them are more substantial.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. His smile widened.

“I’m sure you already know how many orphans this unfortunate war has created,” he said, taking a step closer to her, “I hear so many tragic tales of motherless children wandering the Riverlands. I saw some of them myself, when I passed through Harrenhal – and one of them in particular looked very familiar.”

Sansa froze. She could feel her smile slipping. Her heart was pounding against her ribs.

“At first, I thought this poor unfortunate was nothing but a beggar boy, who charmed his way into Lord Tywin’s good graces. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the Lord Tywin’s new cup-bearer was none other than your sister, Arya Stark.”

“Arya?” Sansa blurted, her composure forgotten, “you’ve seen Arya? Where is she? Is she safe?”

“She was well, when I last saw her,” he said, still smiling, “and she did not stay in Lord Tywin’s service for long. As to where she is now, I cannot say – but I could discover her location, if you were willing to give me something in exchange.”

Cold anger flooded into Sansa’s stomach. She had to fight to keep it from showing on her face, or from curling her hands into fists.

“And what would you want in exchange, Lord Baelish?”

He raised his hand, reaching for a lock of her hair. Brienne shifted, her armour clanking, and he withdrew his hand so quickly it was as if he had been stung.

“Marry me, Sansa.”

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Brienne stepped forward. “Mind your tongue, Baelish,” she said, clearly grasping for familiar territory, “treat Lady Stark with the proper courtesies.”

Littlefinger glanced at her, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk.

“ _Lady Stark_ , then. Marry me, and we can unite the North and the Vale – and the Riverlands; you have a claim to them through your mother. I can give you back your sister. I can make sure that no-one ever raises a hand to you again. With me as your husband, my lady, you will finally be safe.”

Sansa’s mind whirred.

She did not know what to think. She knew Littlefinger had spies all across the Seven Kingdoms; if anyone could find Arya, it would be him. He was Lord Protector of the Vale, and Lord of Harrenhal, and had a substantial amount of money and influence besides – he would certainly make an appropriate match. Besides, if she married him, it would be that much easier to divine his plans – and he would be much less likely to betray her.

But his lordship of Harrenhal had been granted by the Lannisters, and they could take it away just as easily. He was only Lord Protector of the Vale, not its lord, and the knights of the Vale were no friends to him. And, of course, he had given her to the Boltons in the first place. She could not believe he had not known of Ramsay’s cruelty – he was far too well-informed for that to be a possibility – and if he had truly wanted to keep her safe, he would never have sent her to them.

The only thing she was certain of was that she did not trust him.

But he said he had seen Arya…

Littlefinger said nothing. He simply watched her, very carefully, like a cat watches a mouse.

“You ask a good deal of me, Lord Baelish,” she said, choosing her words very carefully, “it seems as though the terms of your deal are actions on my part, and only promises on yours.”

He raised his eyebrows. “My _deal_? Lady Stark, you speak as if I had just proposed a business transaction. I assure you, my offer comes from the heart.”

From her position by the doorway, Brienne let out a snort of disbelief. She coughed loudly, as if she was trying to disguise it.

Sansa smiled. “In my experience, Lord Baelish, offers from the heart rarely come with so many conditions attached.”

His eyes narrowed. Panic fluttered in the pit of her stomach.

“But you know as well as I do,” she continued, “that I am not free to follow my heart. I must think of my position, and of my people, before I can choose a husband. My lords are not happy being governed by an unwed girl, that is true, but they would be less happy if I were to marry a Southerner who had not proven himself worthy in their eyes.”

“So you reject my offer, then?”

For a moment, Sansa hesitated. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her not to trust him, not to let him anywhere near her.

But turning him down could have dire consequences, and if he could bring her back her sister, she had no choice.

“No,” she said, “I simply wish to amend it. I cannot marry you on a promise, Lord Baelish, not when my position is so uncertain and winter is drawing in. But if you bring me back my sister – alive, and unharmed – then I shall marry you.”

He smiled, and gave her a little bow. Behind him, Brienne’s mouth fell open. She looked almost distraught.

“We must keep this a secret,” she said, as he turned to leave, “until you have fetched back my sister, my lords will not take kindly to your presence. They are hard men; if they think your suit has been successful, both of us could well be in danger.”

He nodded. “I shall be the very soul of discretion.”

She gave him her most dazzling smile, but inside, she was screaming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter - hope you guys enjoy it! As always, don't forget to keep the feedback coming, I seriously love hearing what you think!

Sansa could not help but feel that she had made a grave mistake.

She had agreed to marry Petyr Baelish, if he could bring her back her sister. She had no doubt that he could do it – Arya had never been one for subterfuge, it would not take him long to find her – and so they were as good as wed already. He had told her as much himself, with that lascivious look on his face that she had come to hate so much, but then Brienne had drawn her sword and he had beaten a hasty retreat.

The only problem was, she did not know how she could go through with it. She did not trust Littlefinger one bit. He had promised to keep her safe from the Lannisters, and to help her control the Northern lords, but she did not believe him. He was a wealthy man – or he would be, as long as the Faith Militant let his establishments remain open. He was well-connected, too – although they were connections to people who had openly promised to kill her. She genuinely did not see how he expected to remain so wealthy and well-connected if he married her, and wondered if marriage was even a part of his plan at all.

When she saw Littlefinger’s quick, scheming eyes – always moving, always assessing – she was overcome with the suspicion that whatever he received, it would never be enough. He struck her as the kind of man who would never be content with simply ruling the North – even though it was the largest region in Westeros – but would always look to the future, for the next opportunity to increase his power. She did not doubt that if this opportunity came at the cost of her own life, Littlefinger would take it, even if it meant casting her aside.

She did not want that.

When she allowed herself to daydream, as she had done so many years ago, that was not how she pictured her future husband. If she had any say in the matter, she would choose a husband who needed her, and knew it. With Littlefinger’s all-encompassing quest for power, he would not need her for long.

It seemed as though the only way out of her engagement was to have him killed. She did not exactly relish the prospect – although she would gladly be free of Littlefinger, she had never taken a man’s life without good cause, and did not wish to start. Her only hope was that he would act in such a way that she could justify taking his head, but she did not think that he would take that risk.

He had already sent out the ravens. She had watched him do it herself, and read every message before the bird left the tower. She knew exactly where the birds were going, and the messages they carried, but she still could not bring herself to trust him.

She wondered what kind of marriage they would have, if she could only ever suspect him.

* * *

 

 

The wildlings Jon had sent through the Wall were approaching the gates.

One of her scouts had seen them traipsing down the kingsroad in the night, and had almost ridden his horse to death to bring her the news. It had given her enough time to post guards all along the battlements of Winterfell, and to ensure the armoury was well stocked with arrows. She could do little else but warn her lords that the wildlings were not to be harmed unless she gave the order – but whether they would obey her was another matter. Her lords were all clustered behind her as she waited by the outer walls, their weapons already in their hands.

She dressed in the colours of her house – warm clothes of white and grey, with a thick fur trim around everything – and sat astride a white horse, awaiting their arrival. Her long red hair flickered like flames in the breeze, obscuring her view of the archers posted all along her battlements. The dragonglass candle was tucked safely up her sleeve.

A lookout called down to her.

“Lady Stark! They’re coming!”

She squinted into the distance. Soon, she could see a dark shape along the horizon; a slow, amorphous mass that seemed to trickle down towards her.

She squared her shoulders.

It seemed to take an age for the wildlings to reach her. There were many more of them than she had thought – their number was much closer to a thousand than Jon’s estimate of a few hundred. Most of them were women and children, just as Jon had said, but there were a good deal more warriors than she had initially supposed there would be. Indeed, even the women and children seemed little different from the warriors themselves: every man, woman and child had a curiously hardened look about them, as if every last one of them had seen and done things they would rather not admit to. All of them were carrying heavy packs, were dressed in as many scraps of fur as they could find – some of the skins held in place by bits of twine – and all of them held weapons.

She took a deep breath.

They shuffled to a halt when they saw her waiting in front of the North gate. Several of them glanced upwards, at the frozen heads of the Boltons still embedded on the spikes above the drawbridge. _Good_ , she thought.

Gradually, a man came to the front of the crowd. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and with a mass of wild red hair that reminded Sansa of weirwood trees. He had a thick beard, too, which seemed to make his chin jut out in a particularly belligerent manner, and he was dressed in the same scraps of skins and furs as the rest of the wildlings, all held in place with twine. There was a heavy pack on his back, wrapped in the same scraps of fur and twine as his clothes, so that for a moment she did not see it, and thought he had a particularly pronounced hunch. There were several throwing axes stuck into his belt, and Sansa wondered how quickly he would be able to launch them at her.

He stepped forward. Her hands tightened on the reins.

“This Winterfell?” he grunted.

Sansa felt a flash of annoyance, but she kept her face still. “Yes,” she said, her voice clear and strong.

The man nodded. Behind him, several wildlings dropped their packs and began spreading out, as though they were looking for a good place to camp. The red-headed man did not put down his load, however; he shifted the straps, as though he was trying to pull it closer to him.

“The crows sent us here,” the man said, staring up at her, “take us to your king, girl, or whoever else you southerners kneel to.”

There was a smattering of laughter from behind her. She could hear the Greatjon’s booming laugh loudest of them all, and wished he had the sense to stifle it. In front of her, the wildlings shifted their weight, clutching their weapons and staring at the northern lords with narrowed eyes.

“There are no kings here, Ser,” she said, keeping her voice level, “if you wish to speak to the one who commands this castle, then you may speak to me: I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

The wildlings exchanged glances. The red-headed man narrowed his eyes.

“I was told Winterfell was ruled by a man named Bolton,” he said, “not a pretty Southron lady in a pretty Southron dress.”

All the laughter died. Behind her, Sansa heard the Northern lords muttering, and the scraping of swords against scabbards.

She gave the wildling her most dazzling smile.

“Perhaps you would like to speak to my husband?”

“Aye,” he said, shifting his pack again. It almost seemed to be moving.

Still smiling, Sansa pointed straight upwards. As one, the wildlings’ eyes followed her finger, and came to rest on the severed, frozen heads of the Boltons.

The red-headed man looked back down at her. He seemed to look at her with new eyes – eyes that took in every part of her – and the beginnings of a smile were spreading across his face.

“You put him up there yourself?”

“In a manner of speaking. He was unworthy.”

His pack shifted again, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll bet he was.”

She gave him an extremely stern look, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the blush crawling into her cheeks.

She cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter. “I do not suffer unworthy men gladly, Ser. You and your people will be welcome here, if you abide by our laws. You may pitch camp inside the outer walls, and you are free to hunt in the wolfswood as you please. Work will be made available for any of your people who wish it, and those who choose to do so will be entitled to a share of food and firewood from my stores. If you have any grievances, you may bring them to me, and I shall resolve them.”

She leaned forward, raising her voice.

“But if I find that any of your people have harmed anyone under my protection, I will kill each and every one of you.”

His smile vanished. He pulled his pack a little closer, and Sansa was overcome by the urge to look inside it.

“You will, will you?”

She stared straight into his eyes, and saw the fear there.

“Yes.”

“How do I know you won’t kill us all in our sleep?”

She gave him a small smile. “I could ask you the same question, Ser.”

A look of annoyance flashed across his features. His pack squirmed again – there was definitely something living inside it – and he shifted the straps again.

Sansa sighed. “I bear you no ill will, Ser. I only wish to protect my people; they have suffered enough. If you will follow me to the godswood, we will swear a truce between our peoples before a heart tree.”

The man glanced over his shoulder. The wildlings’ tired, dirty faces stared back at him, and Sansa was struck with a sudden sense of pity for every last one of them.

She would be very sorry if she had to kill them.

The man turned back to her and nodded. She smiled, and turned her horse around. The Northern lords stood in front of the gates, mounted and armed. None of them moved. She saw them exchanging glances, and her eyes narrowed.

Slowly, deliberately, she looked up at the archers on the battlements. She looked back down at the assembled lords, her eyebrows raised, and heard the creaking of wood as the archers turned, drawing back their bowstrings.

Reluctantly, the lords moved aside. Sansa smiled.

She spurred her horse forward. The wildling man strode after her, his long legs easily keeping pace with her mare.

“This way, Ser.”

“Don’t call me that,” the man grumbled, his voice low and surly, “I’m not one of your Southron knights.”

She shot him a sidelong look. “It was a simple courtesy. I meant no offence.”

He frowned up at her. “Courtesy? I didn’t see you bowing.”

For a moment, she did not understand him. Then she realised: he thought she meant ‘curtsey’, and he may well have never known courtesies in his life.

“I only wished to pay you a kindness. From what I understand, you and your people have travelled for many days; I wanted to make you feel welcome.”

He furrowed his brow. “Those archers didn’t make us feel welcome.”

She smiled. “I wanted to make your people feel welcome, I _had_ to make my people feel safe. Forgive me for saying so, my friend, but your reputation has preceded you somewhat. Many of my lords begged me to shoot you on sight.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She thought of Jon’s whispered stories, and tightened her hands on the reins.

“From what I understand, we have a common enemy.”

He fell silent.

The godswood came into view. Even though the snow fell thick and fast all across the courtyard, beyond the walls of the godswood there was only the thinnest layer of snow dusting the fallen leaves. The hot springs under Winterfell were stronger there, and would sometimes melt the snow above them. As she came closer, a sudden breeze rustled the leaves of the weirwood trees, and for a moment it sounded like many voices whispering her name.

Sansa climbed down from her horse. Close to, she saw that the wildling man was almost a giant – almost as tall as the Hound had been. Everything about him seemed larger than life – right down to his massive, paw-like hands. For a moment, she was almost afraid, but then she heard Brienne’s armour clanking behind her and knew she was safe.

She smiled at the wildling, and led him into the godswood.

“What am I to call you, then? If we are to be allies, we should at least know each other’s names.”

The man scratched his beard. “Tormund, called Giantsbane.”

She dropped him a curtsey before she could stop herself. Courtly manners were so ingrained in her that her knees were already bending before she knew it; Tormund stared at her as though she had just stripped naked.

“Sansa,” she said, “of House Stark. Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. Will you lay down your pack, Tormund, and kneel down with me?”

“I won’t kneel to you. Free Folk don’t kneel.”

Sansa bit back the urge to roll her eyes. “You won’t be kneeling to me. We shall both be kneeling before the gods.”

He ran a finger under the strap of his pack, reluctantly. He glanced at Brienne.

“You’ll be careful with it?”

Brienne pursed her lips, but nodded. Tormund handed over the pack gingerly, as though it were made of glass, and knelt down in front of the heart tree. Sansa joined him, and regretted her decision to wear white instantly.

Suddenly, Brienne gave a shout. Sansa whirled around and Tormund sprang to his feet; both of them darted towards her.

A small, pink hand had found its way through the scraps of fur that bound Tormund’s pack. There was a plaintive, mewling cry and a lot of vigorous wriggling, and seconds later, the round, red face of a tiny baby became visible through the furs.

Brienne stared down at the pack, utterly frozen. Another one of the baby’s arms worked itself free, and the little child shrieked when the cold snow landed on its skin.

Tormund darted forward, lifting the baby out of Brienne’s hands. He glared at her, and began tucking the baby’s arms back inside the furs. His big hands moved slowly, carefully, as though he was half-terrified that he might snap the child in two.

“You’ve woken him,” he muttered, poking the child’s tiny hand back beneath the skins. He cradled the baby to his chest, rubbing its back with one enormous hand and making low, rumbling sounds that seemed to soothe it.

Sansa beamed at him. “Does he have a name?” she asked, peering at Tormund’s bundle of rags.

Tormund shook his head. “I’ll name him when winter ends – if he lives long enough to see it.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter - hope you guys enjoy it! Just so you all know there's a mention of rape towards the end - just a heads up if you don't want to read about that sort of thing. Remember to keep the feedback coming, I always love hearing what you guys think!

Every day since she opened her gates to the wildlings, she was regretting it.

They had set up camp much faster than she thought possible. After Theon had sacked Winterfell, the moat had long since run dry. It was an empty trench that ran all the way between the inner and the outer walls, and the wildlings had claimed it for their own. They had produced skins and furs from nowhere and pitched their makeshift tents in the trench. From the battlements, it almost looked like a thick, dark river. When she passed over the bridge, she had to have heralds yelling at the wildlings to get out of the way; it always took a full half an hour before the drawbridge could be lowered.

Tormund had been as good as his word. The wildlings did not bother her smallfolk much. The old men would scowl up at anyone who passed them by, and some of the younger ones – although there were not many of them – had come up to the castle asking for work. Most of them did not, preferring instead to hunt in the wolfswood, or pilfer twigs for their fires. The children had even started playing together, with the children of Winter Town jumping down into the trench and chasing each other through the mass of tents, or joining the younger wildlings in a game of knucklebones.

It was the women who were the problem.

Sansa sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had not been sleeping well. Every time she closed her eyes she was plagued with dreams of whispering trees that seemed so vivid it was as if she had not slept at all. She sat in her father’s solar, hunched over the long table, a dull pain pounding in her head. In front of her was a candle, pen and ink and a long list of complaints.

In truth, it was not the women who were the problem. It was the men of Winterfell who looked down from the battlements and saw a trench full of women with no husbands to fight them, no fathers to take them to task, and no sons who would chase them away. The wildling women could defend themselves well – far better than she could, she knew. She had already sat in judgement when a handful of Winterfell men and a handful of wildling women had been brought before her, all of them with bloody noses and broken knuckles. She knew what had happened – it was abundantly clear to her – but none of them said a word to her. Without their testimony, she was powerless to do anything about it, and the thought of it made her sick to her stomach.

There was a knock at her door.

“Come in!”

Brienne entered, covered in sweat. For once, she was not wearing her armour – only boiled leather and chainmail. Clearly, she had been training.

Sansa smiled, and sat back in her chair. “What is it, Brienne?”

Brienne hesitated. She glanced at the corners of the room, as was her habit; when Sansa had asked her about it, she had told her she was checking for assassins.

Brienne licked her lips, nervously. Her face was very red. “You ought to light more candles,” she mumbled, “the dark will strain your eyes.”

Sansa got to her feet, stretching. “I shall, when more are made. Until then, I will save them.”

Brienne nodded. She began gnawing on her bottom lip, and she would not meet Sansa’s eyes.

“Was that all you wanted to tell me?” Sansa asked, gently.

Brienne shook her head.

Sansa sat down by the fire, and indicated the chair opposite her. Brienne sat down too, perching on the edge of her chair as though she expected to have to spring up at any second.

“I heard some of the men talking at training. It seems…it seems as if Littlefinger has…has opened an _establishment_ in Winter Town.”

Sansa’s hands clenched on the arms of her chair. “ _What?_ ” she spat.

Brienne looked wretched, picking at the sleeve of her chainmail. “I tried to make them tell me where it was,” she pleaded, “but they said nothing. I could give you their names, my lady.”

She nodded. “Please do, Brienne. Honestly! In Winter Town, right on the steps of my father’s castle…did they say where he found the women?”

Brienne squirmed in her seat, staring at the floor.

“The wildlings,” she muttered.

Sansa stood up. Fury was boiling in the pit of her stomach, and her fists were clenched.

“Bring him here,” she hissed.

“At once, my lady.”

* * *

 

 

She tried to calm down.

As she waited for Littlefinger she stood clutching the back of her chair, taking long, deep breaths. She paced up and down the room, clenching and unclenching her hands. She went over to the window and pressed her forehead against the glass; it was so cold it almost stung.

It did not work. She was furious.

She had agreed to marry him – in secret, and on the condition that he retrieved her sister, but she had agreed to it nevertheless. She had expected him to act with some discretion – or at least treat her home with respect, as it would one day be his own. But instead, he had all but spat in her eye when he opened his ‘establishment’.

She wondered if he ever used his brothels himself. She doubted she would ever find out.

The door opened and Sansa glanced out the window, trying to compose herself. The weight of the dragonglass candle rested against her arm, like a restraining hand.

“Lady Stark,” said Littlefinger, “your noble knight here said you wanted to see me.”

Sansa took a long, slow breath.

Then, she faced him.

“Yes,” she said, her voice level, “I did. It has come to my attention that you have opened up a…a business venture in Winter Town.”

Littlefinger spread his hands. “I am a businessman, my lady. I have many interests in many different locations. Each one is valuable, in its own way.”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “I am aware of that. It is the nature of your business that I object to, Lord Baelish. I will not have you opening up a brothel on the steps of my father’s castle.”

There was too much anger in her voice. It was only a shade more than she intended him to hear, but she could hear it weaving through her words like a snake rustling through leaves.

Littlefinger kept his face impassive. “It is only a business venture, my lady. As your family are wont to say, winter is coming. All men must make provisions for themselves in such hard times – it is only natural that some of these provisions should be financial.”

“This is not King’s Landing!” she snapped, her hands curling into fists, “I will not have it here! And to fill it with wildling women – what were you thinking? To take advantage of them like that…”

“Your concern for the wildlings is admirable,” he said, his words unctuous and slimy, “but I assure you, I would not dream of taking advantage of their women. As I’m sure you know, the wildlings view…intimate relations in a very different way to you and I. They felt no shame – I simply offered them employment.”

Sansa faltered. In her anger, she had not considered that. The wildlings were a very different people; perhaps they really would feel no shame at being informed at one of Littlefinger’s establishments.

Then again, it was Littlefinger who had told her this, and the one thing that she was certain of was that she could not trust him.

He took a step towards her. “In my experience, Lady Stark, establishments such as mine are more often a force for good. They provide a natural outlet for some of man’s…darker urges. With so many women living between the castle walls, there will be many unfortunate incidents for you to deal with. I believe you have seen some of them already. Let me remain open for a month, and I assure you, there will be no such incidents.”

Sansa hesitated.

She had no idea if he was telling the truth. She had learned much since she had first left Winterfell, but all she had learned of men’s ‘darker urges’ had been from Ramsay Bolton. She had _been_ the ‘natural outlet’ for his frustrations, and it had left her with countless scars. He had treated her so cruelly that the maester said she was wounded internally, so much so that it had hurt for months. Now, the pain had faded, but the memory of it had not.

The door opened again.

Tormund Giantsbane burst in, in a whirl of red hair and furs. His face was as red as his hair, his knuckles were white, and there were dark circles under his eyes. At once, panic flooded Sansa’s stomach.

“Tormund? Is something –”

He rounded on her. “You said you’d leave us alone!”

“I don’t –”

Brienne stepped forward, drawing her sword. “Hold your tongue, Giantsbane. Remember your place.”

Tormund laughed, a horrible, mirthless laugh that made the hairs on the back of Sansa’s neck stand up.

“My place? You Southerners think the Free Folk’s place is on their knees or on their backs!”

“Tormund,” said Sansa, her voice as soothing as she could make it, “I don’t understand. Tell me what’s happened.”

His face twisted.

“Your Southerners raped one of our women and left her to die.”

There was absolute silence.

“Is she alive?” Sansa whispered.

He nodded.

“Take me to her.”

Tormund let out a snort of laughter.

Brienne stepped forward. “My lady, this is not wise. Going into the wildling trench –”

“Lady Stark,” Littlefinger wheedled, “this unfortunate incident is surely the result of –”

“Enough,” Sansa snapped.

She rounded on Tormund. His fists were still clenched, and he was breathing very heavily.

“Bring me to the wildling woman,” Sansa ordered. “If she should wish it, I will bring her to the maester. As for the men who harmed her, _I will bring her their heads_.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter! As before, this one talks about the aftermath of rape - just a heads up if this kind of thing makes any of you guys uncomfortable. Please don't hesitate to leave a comment, I really enjoy hearing all your feedback!

Brienne was running along in her wake.

Sansa walked faster than she had done in a long time, her fists clenched at her side. Sheer fury propelled her out the castle doors and into the snow falling in the courtyard. She headed straight for the moat, ignoring the sounds of Brienne’s armour clanking along behind her.

Tormund was beside her, his long strides forceful and furious.

“When did this happen?”

Tormund scowled into the distance. “Late last night. After the taverns closed. Her sister found work in Winter Town – she was looking for her when they found her.”

Sansa wondered what kind of work the wildling’s sister had found that would cause her family to come looking for her on a cold, snowy night. She thought of Littlefinger, and his ‘establishment’, and bile rose up in the back of her throat.

She had agreed to marry that man…

“What’s her name?”

Tormund glanced down at her. For a moment, he was silent.

“Hildun.”

Brienne caught up with her, panting a little.

“My lady,” she said, “let me accompany you. I am your sworn shield; my place is by your side.”

Sansa nodded. Tormund rolled his eyes.

“Sworn shield,” he muttered, “you southerners always try and make things so pretty. Just tell your lady you’ll bash their heads in if they touch her.”

Brienne glared at him. “A fine suggestion.”

Tormund opened his mouth, already rounding on Brienne, but Sansa cut across him. “I will have no more of this. A woman lies injured; this is no time for squabbling. Brienne, stay close to me. Tormund, take me to Hildun.”

Tormund scowled at her, but led her towards the trench.

Close to, the smell was almost overpowering. Woodsmoke, raw meat, old furs, and the pervasive smell of a communal latrine wafted out of the trench like heat. The moment they set foot on the drawbridge, the archers on the walls swivelled in their direction and wildling children went scurrying through the maze of tents, shrieking as they ran. Sansa held up a hand, and the archers lowered their weapons.

There was a large patch of clear snow on either side of the drawbridge, tightly packed down and covered in the imprints of many feet. Tormund jumped down, landing square in the middle, and stared up at her.

The challenge was clearly visible on his face.

Sansa peered over the edge of the drawbridge. It was not a long drop, but it was long enough.

Brienne jumped down, skidding a little on the compacted snow. She straightened up, still a little wobbly, and held out her arms for her.

“I’ll catch you, my lady.”

Sansa glanced around the trench. Small groups of wildlings were crawling out of their tents, looking curiously up at her. Most of them were already smiling, clearly expecting her to fall.

“That won’t be necessary, Brienne,” she said, “please move aside.”

Brienne edged out of the way. She did not go far, and from the worry on her face it was clear she expected to have to rush in and catch her at any minute. Tormund watched them, an exasperated look on her face, and that was what made her do it.

He thought she was a child, too afraid of a little drop. If he did not respect her, he would never follow her.

She took a deep breath and jumped.

It was over before she knew it. One second she had been standing on the drawbridge, the next she was straightening up in the trench, her knees a little shaky from the impact. The wildlings slunk back into their tents, disappointed.

Tormund nodded to her. Then, he turned around, and began winding his way through the maze of tents. Sansa strode after him, picking her way through the tangle of ropes and pins that held the fur-and-skins shanty town together.

He led them both into a large tent made from a patchwork of furs, some of which she could not recognise. It was taller than all three of them, but the door was low, so that she had to stoop to pass through it.

All she could see was smoke. For a moment she thought of the Red Priestess and shivered, but then her eyes became used to the gloom. The embers of a small fire were burning in the centre of the room, surrounded by a ring of stones. Discarded packs lay along the edges of the tent, and at the very far end, lying in a pile of furs, was a woman. A figure muffled in furs was bent over her, and it whirled around as they entered the tent.

“What’s _she_ doing here?” the figure snapped. Sansa squinted, and saw the figure had long hair – it was likely a woman, too.

“I’ve come to see Hildun,” Sansa said, “I can give her treatment up at the castle, and if she will tell me what happened, I will bring the men who harmed her to justice.”

The woman snorted. “Our Hildun don’t want nothing to do with you southerners. Go home, girly.”

Sansa stood her ground. “Let me see her. I can help.”

The woman rounded on her. “I said go home! You’re a child, you can do no good here! What do you know of rape?”

Sansa smiled.

“Has anyone ever told you why I put my husband’s head on a spike?”

The woman fell silent. Tormund turned to look at her, curiosity splayed all over his face. Even Brienne was watching her; she could practically feel her gaze burning into the back of her head.

“I did not choose my last husband. He was cruel, very cruel. He would break the bones in men’s feet and make them run for his pleasure. He would skin anyone he pleased – but only if they were alive, he liked to hear them scream. And as for the women…he would hunt them in the woods, as if they were animals, and when he caught them he would rape them and give them to his dogs.”

Tormund’s eyes were wide. The woman faltered. Behind her, Sansa heard Brienne’s sharp hiss of disgust.

“I married this man,” she told them, “and he raped me too – very frequently, as a matter of fact. He was determined to have a son, and cruelty was the only way he knew how to get one. So I led an army into the castle and his head was laid at my feet.”

She took a step forward, staring straight at the wildling woman.

“I do not tolerate rapers here. My husband’s head is rotting on a spike. Let me speak to Hildun and I will do the same to them.”

The woman hesitated. Close to, Sansa saw that her face was weather-beaten, with deep lines etched into her forehead and cheeks. Her hair was pale in the gloom, and Sansa wondered if she was old enough for it to be grey.

Then, the woman moved aside.

Sansa could not tell how old Hildun was. Both her eyes were blackened and her cheeks were swollen, and there were traces of dried blood around her mouth and nose, where someone had tried to wipe it away. There was a large cut on her forehead too, and Sansa thought she saw a shadow of a bruise disappearing beneath the collar of Hildun’s furs.

She knelt down beside the makeshift bed.

“Hildun,” she said, “I’ve come to help you.”

Hildun turned away from her.

“I mean you no disrespect,” she continued, “if you wish it, I shall leave this tent and bother you no more. But will you listen to my offer first?”

Hildun said nothing.

“I can take you up to the castle. There is a maester there; he will be able to clean your cuts and bruises, and give you something for your pain. You would be welcome to stay there for as long as you like. I will not force you to break your silence, but if you tell me what happened, I will kill the men who harmed you.”

For a long time, none of them said a word. Hildun still faced away from them, staring at the walls of her tent.

Then, slowly, she nodded.

* * *

 

 

It had taken them a long time to get Hildun up to the castle.

Her injuries were bad; every time she moved she would wince, or let out a little hiss of pain. When she tried to stand up her legs would tremble and all the colour would drain right out of her face, leaving only the bruises behind. She refused to be carried, so Brienne and the woman – Hildun’s mother – had to stand on either side of her and half-walk, half-drag Hildun out of the tent, one of her arms slung around each of their necks.

She and Tormund walked in front of them.

Tormund insisted that they all stay together, and Sansa could see why. As they walked through the trench, hundreds of eyes watched them pass. All of them were silent, their faces still and unforgiving. The air was filled with a heavy, oppressive judgement as thick as the smell of the trench. If the wildlings had seen only Sansa and Brienne carrying Hildun’s badly beaten body into the castle, it would have been tantamount to an act of war.

Tormund loped along beside her like an angry wolf, his fists still clenched. He had offered to help carry Hildun, but she had refused him. She did not seem to want any man coming near her, and although Tormund was clearly hurt, Sansa could not blame her.

After an age, they came to the drawbridge, and Sansa immediately became aware of another problem.

The sides of the trench were steep, and covered in tightly packed-down snow. Even if they had all been able to walk upright, they still would have had serious trouble climbing up the banks. With Hildun barely standing, it would be almost impossible.

She squinted up at the battlements. “I’ll have my men bring down some kind of steps,” she mused, already signalling the guards on the battlements, “we’ll have to wait a moment, but I’m sure that will be the safest way to –”

Tormund bent down. He grabbed her around the legs and hoisted her upwards. Sansa yelped in alarm, wobbling precariously, and for a split second she thought he was going to throw her over his shoulder and make off with her, just like everyone said the wildling men would do. Brienne yelled, dropping Hildun’s arm and darting forwards, and on the battlements the archers reached for their arrows.

Then, she felt the wood of the drawbridge smack into the backs of her thighs, and clarity struck. All he had done was lift her onto the drawbridge, and colour exploded in her cheeks.

“Don’t shoot!” she called to the archers, as Tormund let go of her legs and she scrambled to her feet.

Brienne shuffled back to Hildun and her mother, who was staggering under her daughter’s weight, and pulled the wildling’s arm over her shoulder. Hildun and her mother both glared at her, and a guilty blush crept into Brienne’s cheeks. The archers did not put away their arrows, but they relaxed their bowstrings, keeping their eyes fixed on the wildling trench.

Tormund alone seemed completely unperturbed by the whole incident. He simply placed his broad hands on the drawbridge and hauled himself out of the trench, just as a swimmer would climb up from a riverbank.

“You could have waited for the steps,” she snapped, still blushing.

He raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing.

Hildun’s mother did just as Tormund had done, hauling herself out of the trench. It was not as easy for her as it was for Tormund – her wiry arms shook as she moved, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead – and Sansa and Tormund both had to take an arm to help her out. Next came Hildun, who Brienne lifted up onto the drawbridge in just the same way that Tormund had lifted Sansa. Last came Brienne, who hauled herself out of the trench in full armour, kicking her legs wildly and stubbornly refusing all their offered hands.

Sansa dusted off her skirts and led them inside. She sent a servant running to the maester, telling him to begin his preparations, and the five of them made their way across the courtyard.

When they finally reached the maester’s chambers, all of them were red-faced and sweating. Carrying Hildun up the many spiral staircases had not been easy, and had sometimes taken all four of them to help her around the tighter corners and the steeper steps. Brienne had tried to spare Sansa the worst of it, but after she insisted that a noble lady should not have to do any heavy lifting, Sansa had casted a very pointed look at Brienne’s sword, Oathkeeper, and told her not to be silly.

Now, Sansa, Tormund and Brienne sat outside the maester’s chambers – Hildun had flatly refused to be separated from her mother in the company of a strange man – and waited.

The silence was almost unbearable.

“How does your son fare, Giantsbane?” she asked.

Tormund stretched out his long legs. “He’s not my son.”

She blushed at once. “Oh. I…I hope I have not caused offence…”

He gave her a grim smile. “It’s not what you think, girl. There’s no kin to claim him now, but we Free Folk look after our own. I knew his mother some, but she died at Hardhome. Your crow brother tell you about that?”

“He mentioned it, but he did not want to speak of it overmuch. I suppose that’s why you came south of the Wall?”

He nodded.

“How…how many of them are there?”

There was a very long silence.

“Thousands,” he muttered.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter - it gets a little intense :P Hope you guys enjoy it - and as always, please don't be shy about sharing your thoughts, I love hearing your feedback!

The maester had given her very strict instructions.

Hildun was to be kept in a room at the castle. She was to stay in bed and keep warm, although she was permitted to apply presses of snow and soothing herbs to her swellings, but only if these were wrapped in muslin. For the first few days, he would give her milk of the poppy – more to keep her still than to ease her pain, as she insisted on trying to leave her bed far too soon. After that, she was to be given warming, soothing foods – hot soups and stews – to build up her strength, along with some gentle exercise. She was not allowed back into the wildling trench until the maester had personally deemed her well enough to go back, and even then he had told Sansa that went against his better judgement.

There was no doubt in his mind that Hildun had been raped.

He had taken Sansa aside and told her Hildun had been very cruelly abused, a slightly queasy expression on his face all the while. Sansa did not doubt his judgement; after all, he had attended to her when she was married to Ramsay Bolton.

He had also told her that Hildun’s knuckles were broken and there was blood under Hildun’s fingernails, and that it did not seem to be hers. Before the day was out, Sansa’s guards had rounded up all the men in Winterfell with fresh wounds and locked them in the dungeons.

She let them sit there for a few days, until Hildun’s milk of the poppy had worn off. Then, after Hildun’s mother swathed her daughter in furs and blankets and coaxed her downstairs, she lined them all up in the castle courtyard and told Hildun to name her attackers.

She had named three men. All of them were bruised – one was nursing a broken nose, another a fat lip – and all of them had fingernail-scratches on their arms, necks and faces.

Sansa let the rest of the men go with her apologies. The three rapers were thrown back into the cells, and Sansa told Brienne to make sure her blade was sharp.

* * *

 

 

On the morning of the execution, Sansa rose early. All night she had been plagued by dreams that she was running through a weirwood grove, and all the trees had whispered her name as she passed. When she woke she was covered in cold sweat, and the vision of a shadowy face still burned behind her eyes.

She was not afraid.

She had been unsettled when she awoke, but once the sleep cleared she made herself useful. She got dressed, breaking her fast with a little bread and cheese, and read through her inventories as she ate. Then, when the sun had come up, she paid a visit to the Princess Shireen. They talked happily of the plans for Sweetrobin’s eventual visit, and Sansa made sure that Shireen was left with enough material to make herself a new dress.

That would surely be enough to occupy her until the execution was over.

Then, she went down to her father’s solar – _her_ solar, really, she must stop thinking of it like that – and read through the messages that she had received in the night. There was another one from Sweetrobin, sealed with the sky-blue wax of the Eyrie. A falcon had been pressed into the wax a little too gleefully; the scroll was flattened around the seal, as though someone had stamped it down with far too much enthusiasm.

_Dearest Sansa_ , it read, in Sweetrobin’s fat, round handwriting, _I should very much like to visit you sooner, but Lord Royce says it would not be ~~senssibble~~ prudent. It is very cold here with lots of snow and ice, so Lord Royce says I ought to stay here and be a good example to the Vale. He is looking after me now Lord Baelish has gone south and he makes me do sword practice which is not fun, but Lord Royce says all lords have to do it. I think he must be wrong because Lord Baelish never does any sword practice, but then Lord Royce said that is why he isn’t a good lord and also because he has gone off south. Please write back soon and tell me about the Princess staying with you. Also please tell me when the snow has melted so I can come and visit, I promise I will bring lemon cakes. Ever yours, Robin._

Sansa stared down at the message.

Unless she was very much mistaken, Sweetrobin did not know that Littlefinger was in Winterfell. She did not know if he really had gone south before he had sailed up to Whiteharbour – he was certainly well-informed of all the south’s troubles, but that meant nothing, with his extensive network of spies. If he had been south of the Eyrie, it was likely that he had gone to King’s Landing – he had few allies elsewhere, and the city held the bulk of his financial and political power. What he had done and who he had seen, she could not say.

But now, the Faith Militant was in control of the city.

Sansa had read a little about them in an old history book, after Littlefinger had first mentioned them to her. Centuries before, they had been a moralising crusade that swept through Westeros, right after the coming of Aegon the Conqueror. They had sought to purge the realm from sin and degradation, and did not take kindly to foreign gods.

She wondered if they took kindly to brothel-keepers, too. Perhaps that was why he had opened up a brothel in Winter Town. He was moving his assets north; perhaps he really did mean to marry her.

She could not have that.

She had met one of his...workers. It had been Hildun’s sister, and she had come storming up to the castle still half-dressed, demanding to see her. Her name was Grainne, and she had been young and lovely.

She had long red hair, just like Sansa’s.

Sansa glanced down at the message again. Her eyes fell on the falcon pressed into the blue wax, and an idea came to her. She pulled a fresh scroll of parchment towards her, and began to write.

_Dearest Sweetrobin, how good it is to hear from you! I’m afraid the snows have trapped me in my castle; it shall be quite some time before you can visit. I shall write more about our Princess another time, for I have news – Lord Baelish has come to visit me. I think he means for you to take up hawking, for he is always talking about bringing a new falcon into the Vale. There are many hundreds of lordly duties you must attend to, but you must be sure to practice your swordplay. You must listen to Lord Royce and set an example to the Vale, for he gives very good counsel. I am sure that under his guidance, by the time we meet again you shall be quite the accomplished swordsman. Warmest regards, Sansa._

She leaned back in her chair, studying the message carefully.

It was an innocent enough message; if any of Littlefinger’s spies were to read it, they would not find anything too alarming. But once it reached the Vale, there would be enough in there to send Sweetrobin running to Lord Royce. Even if he did not know that Littlefinger was in Winterfell, the promise of a new hawk would be enough to set him talking about it – Sweetrobin loved receiving gifts – and it sounded as though he and Lord Royce were in very close proximity. If Lord Royce knew Littlefinger had gone north, he would be interested in the new falcon – he was a military man, fond of hunting and hawking. He would want to know more details about the bird, Sweetrobin would not be able to give them, and one way or another he would end up reading the letter. If he did not know that Littlefinger had gone north – which Sansa suspected was probably the case – he would demand to see it himself.

Lord Royce did not like Littlefinger. He was already suspicious of him, and she had dropped just enough hints to add fuel to the fire. If she could set the Lords of the Vale against Littlefinger, his precarious hold on the Vale would be seriously undermined. If she was lucky, perhaps Lord Royce would suspect Littlefinger of planning a coup, and have him thrown into a sky cell the second he set foot beyond the Mountains of the Moon.

Perhaps it would set her free of him.

Perhaps it would only buy her time.

Brienne knocked on the door and Sansa stood up. It was almost noon, and the execution was about to begin. She rolled her message up tightly and sealed it with white wax, pressing the direwolf sigil into it before it dried. She headed up to the ravens’ tower and sent the message on its way, Brienne tapping her foot impatiently on the other side of the door.

Sansa watched the raven fly off into the horizon, and headed down to the courtyard.

When it came to Littlefinger, she decided, time would be enough.

* * *

 

 

They were all waiting for her in the courtyard. Her lords stood huddled in a small group by the castle walls, muttering to each other. A group of Winterfell smallfolk was standing nearby, all of them staring warily at the wildling delegation. The shapeless mass of wildlings stood a little way apart from them, glaring at the three men on their knees in the snow.

Sansa led them all out of the courtyard, over the drawbridge and past the outer wall, walking regally at the head of the procession. She would have no more bloodshed on the steps of her home.

As she walked, the Greatjon came sidling up to her.

“Lady Stark,” he rumbled, in a voice that was clearly meant to be quiet, “we was wondering if you aren’t being too harsh on these lads.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Were you, Lord Umber?”

“Aye,” he said, his sotto voce grumble carrying all across Winterfell, “they’re men grown, but they’re still young; they don’t know no better. For a crime like this, your lord father would’ve sent them up to the Wall. They could use the men.”

Ice crept into her voice. “Tell me, Lord Umber – what do you mean when you say ‘a crime like this’?”

“Well…there was no bloodshed, was there? They all walked away, more or less.”

“The wildling girl did not walk away,” she said, “and there was a great deal of bloodshed. Have you seen her injuries, Lord Umber?”

“Well, no, but…”

“They left her bleeding in the snow to die,” Sansa snapped, “I will not tolerate such behaviour from anyone in my domain.”

“Milady…”

“You forget, Lord Umber, that not so very long ago I was _married_ to a man who treated me exactly as they treated the wildling girl. I am a good deal better informed than you are on the subject of rape, Ser, and I assure you there is no punishment more fitting than this. My father may have sent rapers up to the Wall, but if he had lived to see what the Bolton boy did to me, their heads would already be on spikes.”

The Greatjon winced, and fell silent.

They came to a spot just outside the outer walls of Winterfell. The lords, smallfolk and wildlings all gathered around her as the three prisoners were forced to their knees. Sansa stood behind them. Brienne was at her side, her sword already in her hands.

“In the name of Stannis of the House Baratheon,” she said, her voice clear and strong, “First of His Name, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do sentence you to die for the crime of rape. Brienne –”

There was an outbreak of muttering. The lords exchanged looks, and eventually, the Greatjon shuffled forward.

“Milady,” he said, looking miserable, “the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

There was a very long silence.

She had been afraid of this. She could not even lift Oathkeeper, let alone swing it. She had never killed a man with her own hands before, and though she had causedplenty of deaths with words alone, this would undoubtedly be different.

And yet, every single person in the crowd was looking at her. Half her lords seemed to pity her, the rest were already sneering. The wildlings had looks of outright contempt on their faces, and she had little doubt that if she backed down now, her own smallfolk would do the same.

“Brienne. Your dagger, please.”

Her eyes full of reluctance, Brienne drew a dagger from her belt and handed it over.

At once, the crowd’s muttering intensified. The prisoners all started speaking at once, begging and pleading with her, sniffing loudly and wailing about their mothers.

Brienne leaned forward. “Make sure you stand behind them,” she muttered, “if you pull their heads back you won’t miss. Watch your fingers.”

“Thank you.”

She took the dagger. She had expected it to be heavy, and she was not wrong. As she held it, it felt alien to her, as though her right arm had just lengthened by several inches.

She stood behind the first raper, her heart pounding.

“Please,” he was begging, “please, milady, please don’t kill me…I’d never touch a trueborn Northern girl, I swear, I swear it on your father’s soul, may the gods keep him…”

Her jaw tightened.

She grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and tilted his head backwards. He was almost looking up at her, and his eyes were full of angry, frightened tears.

She glanced into the crowd. Hildun was there, leaning on her mother and sister, her face still bruised. She wondered if Hildun had cried, and whether these men had cared.

In one slow, smooth movement, she slit the man’s throat.

He slumped forward, blood pouring out onto the snow. One of the other prisoners let out a sob of fear, the other knelt in the centre of a spreading yellow patch in the snow.

She moved on to the next one. She seemed to be sliding along on coasters, and as she laid a hand in the second prisoner’s hair and watched him slump forward moments later, she thought of puppets dancing along on strings. She felt like an effigy, a straw scarecrow of a lady whose arms and legs were being moved around by people she could not see.

By the time she killed the last prisoner, she did not even see him fall. The crowd had gone completely silent. Every face was pale, and every pair of eyes was trained on her.

“Have their heads removed and placed on spikes,” she said, her voice surprisingly calm, “and place them alongside the Boltons. Burn the bodies.”

“At once, my lady.”

Still holding the dagger, she stepped over the rapers’ corpses and headed back towards the castle. The smallfolk scattered out of her way; it took longer for her lords to move aside.

She turned back to them.

“I shall keep my father’s customs,” she said, “I will go to the godswood and I will not be disturbed. But let it be known that I will not tolerate the crime of rape in the North.”

She spun on her heel and left. She swept towards the godswood, the hem of her cloak cutting a wide swathe through the snow, and gradually, she heard the crowd disperse. She did not turn and watch them; instead she headed straight for the weirwood tree at the centre of the godswood.

She looked up into its carved face, red sap weeping from its eyes, and felt cold all over.

The dagger fell from her hands. She stepped back from it at once, tugging her skirts out of its way.

She could feel her knees sagging. Whatever it was that had kept her from collapsing was slowly leeching out of her. Slowly, her hands shaking, she lowered herself into a sitting position among the roots and tried not to clatter backwards into the trunk.

She leaned against the bark and closed her eyes, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

She could not stop shaking.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it and as always, don't be shy about sharing your feedback :)

Sansa leant back against the weirwood tree and stared down at her hands. They were spotless, but they were pale and trembling. By rights, she thought, they ought to be covered in blood. As it was, there was only a few drops of it on her sleeve, and around the hem of her skirts.

When she had executed the three rapers, she had moved away far too fast to get much more of their blood on her.

She closed her eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths.

It was not their deaths that disturbed her. She had killed men before, although never with her own hands. In commanding the maester to sew on Ser Harys’s severed fingers, she had killed him. In letting Stannis into Winterfell and telling him of the Boltons’ crimes, she had killed them – in fact, she had relished in it. Death did not scare her any more; she had seen so much of it that it was simply the other half of life.

What truly frightened her was how easy it had been.

Not so long ago, if her lords had put a knife in her hand and told her to execute a prisoner she would have burst into tears, or thrown up violently into the snow, or simply collapsed to the ground in a dead faint. If she had ever been able to so much as scratch one, she would have done all three.

She was sure that was why they had asked her to do it.

But she had sliced open their throats as though she was doing nothing more commonplace than carving her meat, and strode away without a falter in her step.

She was so far from the girl she had once been that she barely recognised herself.

When had she become so cold?

When had killing become so easy?

The leaves of the weirwood tree rustled over her head. The strange, sibilant sound they made reminded her of the way Bran had always tried to say her name when he was a baby: _sssaaaa-ssssaaaaa_ with every gust of wind. She thought of her dream of the whispering trees, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

“You all right, hen?”

Sansa’s eyes flew open and she staggered upright. Tormund Giantsbane was standing in front of her, huddled into his furs. As she straightened up she lost her balance, slipping on the fallen leaves and snow, and he lunged forward, grabbing her hand and hauling her back to her feet.

“Thank you,” she muttered. His hands were surprisingly warm.

“That the first time you killed someone?”

His voice was gentle, but it felt like he had slapped her. She went cold all over, and tugged her hand out of his grip.

She shook her head.

“Sure about that?”

She gave him a cold, brittle smile. “It depends on how you define ‘killed’, Giantsbane.”

He blinked at her. “This a Southron thing?”

She laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “I suppose it might be. I…In the past, I have done things which I knew would result in other people’s deaths. That was why I did them.”

“That what happened to your husband?”

She nodded.

“Why didn’t you do it yourself?”

“The castle was filled with his father’s men. If I had killed him, they would have flayed me alive.”

Tormund did not look at her. He sat himself down amongst the roots of the weirwood tree and sooner or later, she joined him.

“It was the first time you did it yourself.”

He didn’t ask. He already knew the answer.

“You scared of all the blood?”

She frowned at him. “I’m a woman grown, Giantsbane.”

He let out a snort of laughter.

“I wasn’t scared of the _blood_!” she snapped, “I wasn’t scared at all! That’s what frightens me!”

He gave her a long, searching look. She sighed.

“It…it was just so easy,” she muttered, “it was all over before I knew it. Taking a man’s life shouldn’t _be_ that easy. Soon it won’t mean anything to me and I’ll be just as bad as Ramsay!”

Tormund gave her a little nudge with his shoulder. “You call this easy, hen?”

She said nothing.

“Made it easier for our Hildun,” he muttered, “knowing you was looking out for her.”

She gave him a little smile. Over their heads, the leaves of the heart tree rustled again, and to Sansa’s ears the _sssaaaa-ssssaaaaa_ almost sounded like her own name. Tormund frowned up at the leaves.

For a long moment they sat under the weirwood tree together, saying nothing, the leaves whispering over their heads. Tormund stretched out his long legs and leant back against the bark, a thoughtful look on his face.

At the back of her mind, Sansa wondered just when she had become so at ease with the wildling. For most of her life people had been telling her stories about how no good Northern girl was safe around wildling men, but safe was exactly how she felt. His face was so expressive that she could tell exactly what he was thinking long before he opened his mouth. After the nest of vipers that was the royal court, it was oddly relaxing to sit beside someone whose words matched his thoughts.

She cleared her throat before she could think any more on the subject. “You never said why you came looking for me, Giantsbane. Why did Brienne let you into the godswood?”

“Some swampy bugger’s asking after you. Told her I’d tell you.”

“Tormund Giantsbane, I am a _lady_.”

He grinned. “Some swampy bugger’s asking after you, _milady_.”

She bit back a smile and stood up. “Well, thank you for telling me. And thank you for the talk. It was…it was very kind of you.”

Tormund gave her a smile that seemed half-hidden by his own beard. For a moment she wanted to reach out and take his hand, but she thought better of it.

“I should…I should see who it is…”

“There’s no need, my lady.”

She whirled around.

Standing before them was a middle-aged man. She had no idea when he had appeared; he had moved so quietly she had not even heard the rustling of the leaves beneath his feet. He stood five feet tall in his boots, which were made of supple brown hide, and was dressed in a green cloak that seemed to shift shades as he moved. His face was weather-beaten, yet somehow curiously ageless: he could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty. He stood perfectly still, and the only part of him that moved was his green eyes, which seemed to strip everything he saw right down to the bones.

He knelt, in one fluid motion.

“Howland Reed, my lady.”

The weirwood leaves rustled – _sssaaaa-ssssaaaaa_ over their heads – and Howland Reed looked up, sharply.

“My lord? Is something the matter?”

Howland Reed’s eyes darted all around the godswood. The rustling grew louder, and this time, Sansa could have sworn she heard her own name amongst the leaves.

Tormund shuffled a little closer to her, his hand already gripping one of the axes in his built.

“It would seem the gods are speaking to you, my lady,” Howland Reed muttered.

* * *

 

 

Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, a hot cup of tea clutched in her hands. Night had fallen long ago, and just moments before she had bade her lords goodnight and watched them file out of the Great Hall. Littlefinger had been the last to leave – he kept glancing at the servants and making cryptic remarks about dragons flying west – and he had only left her in peace when Brienne had all but chased him out of the Hall. Then, there had been a raven from Stannis to answer; he wanted her to send his daughter south, to join him in the Riverlands. R’hllor himself demanded the Princess’s safe return to her father’s side – which is to say, the Red Priestess commanded it.

Sansa had refused him, of course. She was in no hurry to send her most valuable hostage away, and even if she had wanted to, the snowstorms made the roads completely unfit for travel. Besides, she had grown fond of Shireen, and if what Littlefinger had told her was true, the Riverlands were not yet safe for her.

When she finally reached her room, Howland Reed had been waiting for her with a pot of tea boiling in her fireplace. She had watched him brew it – throwing handfuls of scrubby-looking herbs into the water with intense concentration – and when the last few leaves had been added to the pot, he had told her what it would do.

Brienne had left the door that separated their rooms open.

When he left, Sansa had poured herself a cup, set it aside and changed into her night-clothes. Now, all that was left was for her to drink it.

Her heart was rattling against her ribcage.

The tea, Lord Reed had told her, would help her sleep. But it would not be a calm, dreamless sleep that would wipe away the blossoming dark circles under her eyes. He had told her that while she would be sleeping, she would feel as alert and awake as if she were still sitting down in the Great Hall.

She had told him about her dreams of whispering trees, and he had told her the gods were trying to contact her. The tea would make the dreams more vivid, and the gods’ message would be a little easier to understand.

She wondered what they were trying to tell her, and shivered.

She set down her tea and crawled into bed, drawing the furs up to her chin. The night was bitterly cold – much colder than it had been yesterday – and she was sure that something would have frozen solid in the morning.

She picked up the cup again, her hands shaking so much that ripples spread all across the surface of the liquid.

Then, she raised the cup to her lips and drained it.

Everything went black.

* * *

 

 

Something dark was following her.

She was running through a carpet of red leaves, so red they looked like blood. They clung to her skirts as she hurtled through the trees, jumping over roots and weaving her way between bone-white trunks. Faces were carved into the trees, bleeding sap like open wounds, their wooden mouths creaking as they moved.

_Ssssaaaaa-ssssssaaaaaaaa…_

She kept running. A stitch was flaring in her side. Her breath came so sharp and fast that it hurt. She’d been running for hours.

_Ssssaaaaa-ssssssaaaaaaaa…_

The darkness coiled around her ankles like a snake. The leaves sounded like voices. It was the wind, it _had_ to be the wind…

_Sssssaaaaannnnnnssssssaaaaaa…_

She could not stop. Something was chasing her, and if she held still for even a second, its cold, brittle fingers would curl around her neck and choke the life right out of her…

She blinked. When she opened her eyes, a boy with dark hair stood in front of her. Still, she did not stop; she grabbed his hand and dragged him along after her.

“Sansa! Sansa, stop it!”

She ignored him. He didn’t have time to argue, she didn’t have time to catch her breath, and neither of them had time to stop because something was coming, something terrible and awful was closing in on them and there was nothing they could do, nothing they could do, nothing they could –

“Enough!”

The boy tore his hand away. The whispering stopped. She stopped, too – suddenly her feet would no longer obey her. All the panic leeched out of her – her shadow seeming curiously too long, just for a moment – and suddenly she was so exhausted all she could do was clutch at her chest and suck down great lungfuls of air.

“Sansa?” the boy asked.

For a moment, she could only stare at him. He was taller than she remembered, even though he still barely came up to her shoulder. His hair wanted cutting, and she was sure Maester Luwin had said he might never be able to stand so tall…

“Bran?”

His face split into a grin. She lurched over to him and drew him into a hug so tight her arms ached. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and out of the corner of her eyes she thought she saw sap rolling down the bark of the weirwood trees.

“Where are we?”

“You’re dreaming, Sansa,” he told her, his voice far deeper than she ever remembered it, “we aren’t really in the same place at all.”

She ruffled his hair; it felt real enough to her. He swatted her hand away.

“I mean it, Sansa. We’re in completely different places. I’m beyond the Wall and you’re in Winterfell. It’s just that our minds are meeting here.”

“But that’s – you’re North of the Wall? Bran, it’s _dangerous_ there! What were you thinking? You could have gone anywhere, why would you –”

“I’m safe. I mean it, Sansa,” he said, noting the sceptical expression on her face, “and I’m happy. I don’t want you to come looking for me.”

She felt a lump come into her throat. “Why?”

He gave her a little smile. “It’s not what you think. I…I can’t…things are just better for me here.”

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes.

“I don’t have time to explain,” he said, “this isn’t what I brought you here for.”

“You _brought_ me here? How?”

“There’s no _time_ , Sansa! I’ve got to give you a warning! They’re coming south, they’ve already breached the Wall. Jon’s on his way to you but it’s bad, I can’t reach him any more. Get on a ship and go south, as far south as south goes. Just leave Winterfell and run.”

“What? You want me to just abandon everyone? I can’t do that, Bran, you know I can’t…”

“It’s the Walkers, Sansa. They’re over the Wall.”

She felt as if a cold hand had reached into her chest and seized her heart.

“You aren’t serious…”

“I am. I can do what I can to stop them, but it won’t be much. They’re drawn to life and heat, I think – they can smell it, and they always want to snuff it out. I can buy you enough time to sail south. I don’t know how far they’ll get, but you have to get further.”

“But…you’ll stop them? How?”

“I told you, there’s no time to explain. If I see you again I’ll tell you.”

Blackness sliced into the edges of her vision. The world seemed to shift around her – not just the ground beneath her feet, but the weirwood trees around them, and the skies over their heads – and Bran started towards her. From a long way off she heard someone calling her name – not in the distant way the weirwoods had whispered it, but as though someone was yelling at her from the other end of a long, long tunnel.

Someone was trying to wake her.

Had something happened at Winterfell?

Bran tried to seize her hand, but his fingers passed right through her.

“Go south, Sansa!” he yelled, as everything went dark once again, “and don’t stop running!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the latest chapter - hope you guys enjoy it! As always, don't be shy about sending in your feedback - I love hearing what you all think!

For a moment, she had no idea where she was.

The weirwood grove shook, Bran’s face became a blur, and flashes of a darkened room and a pale face darted past her eyes. She did not know if she felt warm furs weighing down her legs, or a cold wind tugging at her skirts.

Gradually, the weirwood grove faded away into darkness, and her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. She was back in her chambers in Winterfell – the last embers of the fire glowing in the hearth – and Brienne was leaning over her, clutching at her shoulders and shaking her. It took her a while to realise it, but Brienne was dressed in full armour.

Sansa patted Brienne’s hand a little dizzily, and sat up straight. “I’m all right, Brienne. It was…it was a dream, I think…”

“My lady,” Brienne whispered, her face distraught, “it’s your brother…”

Her head snapped up. “What? Bran is here?”

Brienne shook her head.

“Jon, my lady. He’s…he’s very badly wounded. The maester says he might not make it through the night…”

The edges of Sansa’s vision started to turn black. For a moment, she thought she might be returning to the weirwood grove again – perhaps Bran was calling her back – but then Brienne grabbed her shoulders, holding her upright, and she realised she must have almost fainted.

“Jon?” she whimpered, “Jon’s hurt?”

She swung her legs out of bed. They felt as if she was not yet able to control them, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if that was how children felt as they learned to walk. She staggered upright and Brienne snatched at her hand again, keeping her balance.

She shrugged on a pelisse over her night-gown – without an under-dress, her arms were bare and the neckline was far too low, but it would have to do. She pulled a fur cloak over her shoulders and stepped into her shoes, tugging her tangled hair out of the way. Hopefully her lords would be asleep, and would not see her.

If they did, she knew they would find a way to see it as a weakness.

* * *

 

 

“What happened?”

She was the Lady of Winterfell, and she was not allowed into the maester’s chambers. Instead, she had to wait in the little antechamber with four or five of Jon’s black brothers.

If she thought they had looked worse for wear when they had first visited Winterfell, it was nothing to how they looked now. Two of them had broken noses, one was bleeding profusely from the ear, and all of them were covered in cuts, bruises, and something brown which she could not identify – it was either mud or blood.

None of them would meet her eyes.

She pointed at the nearest black brother, her patience wearing thin. He had a pointed sort of face and a woeful expression, and a cut on his lip that had not yet healed.

“Ser,” she snapped, “tell me what happened to your Commander.”

“Shot him full of arrows, milady, after we came back from Winterfell,” he muttered.

Sansa clapped a hand over her mouth. Her knees buckled. Brienne laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Edd,” one of the other brothers hissed, “be kind. She’s the Lady of Winterfell.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, “how…how could he have been shot? Who would have done something like that? And how did you get here so quickly?”

The men of the Nights’ Watch exchanged glances.

“Some of the other brothers done it, milady,” Edd mumbled, “didn’t like Jon letting wildlings through the Wall. Got him from the gatehouse just as we was coming back from Winterfell. Thought it were wildlings, at first, so we tried to fight our way through, but…well, we took him back here.”

Her vision began to fade again. She swayed sideways, and Brienne’s grip on her shoulder tightened.

“Thank you,” she muttered, “thank you for bringing him home.”

* * *

 

 

The maester did not emerge from his chambers until the early hours of the morning.

In that time, Sansa had summoned a maidservant to help her dress – sending all the black brothers out into the corridor when she did so. She still felt sluggish from Howland Reed’s dream-tea, so it took a lot longer than she thought it would, but she did not mind. It was good to have something else to think about, even if it was only for a moment.

She sat in the maester’s ante-chamber with the rest of the black brothers and Brienne, all of them staring into nothingness, none of them saying a word. Her eyes were heavy with tears, and she could feel a lump in her throat.

She had sent for Tormund Giantsbane.

She thought the wildling ought to know about Jon. He was his friend, and deserved to know what had happened…just in case. Besides, there was something permanently loud about Tormund, and with this heavy, oppressive silence pressing in on her from all sides, something loud was exactly what she wanted.

The door open.

Sansa jumped to her feet at once, staggering a little. Brienne caught her arm, steadying her, as the black brothers got to their feet. All of them stared at the maester, and for the first time, Sansa realised just how old the man was.

“I did what I could,” he sighed, his face drawn, “his fate is with the gods now.”

“Can we see him?”

“It would do no harm,” he muttered.

The black brothers filed in at once. The maester watched them pass with weary eyes, staring at their injuries. Sansa rang the bell for another servant, and told them to stay on hand and assist with whatever the maester required.

She did not go inside.

The black brothers were all in Jon’s room, muttering to each other, and even though she knew she was standing in her family home, in her own castle, she felt strangely unwelcome. The black brothers kept themselves to themselves, and had never seemed at ease in her company.

She wondered if they blamed her for what had happened to Jon. He had been the one to let the wildlings through the Wall, but she had been the one to give them a home in Winterfell. The men of the Night’s Watch had turned on her brother; perhaps her lords would do the same to her.

Would they riddle her with arrows, just as the black brothers had done to Jon?

Or would they saddle her with a husband she did not want, who would force her to obey him by any means necessary?

Her eyes were filled with tears. She could feel them burning.

Brienne’s hand squeezed her shoulder. Sansa found her fingers and squeezed them back. Brienne’s knuckles were grazed and slightly swollen, and her fingertips hardened from years of swordplay; it was not so very different from holding Jon’s hand.

The door burst open and Tormund barrelled into the room. His face was white, and he all but skidded to a halt when he saw her.

“Something’s happened.”

She nodded. “Did the messenger tell you?”

He shook his head.

“It’s Jon,” she said, her voice cracking, “he’s…he’s…”

She covered her mouth with her hands, desperate to stop the tears from falling. She could not afford to cry in front of Tormund Giantsbane. He was a wildling, and wildlings respected strength; if he saw her sobbing all the work she had done, all the respect she had earned, all the trust she had built would melt away like the snows in summer. The peace in Winterfell would shatter like ice, the wildlings and her lords would be at each other’s throats, and Tormund would never look at her with anything but contempt…

He crossed the room in two strides and put his arms around her.

For a moment, she was frozen, too shocked to move or speak. He held her very gently, as though she were made of glass, his hands splayed flat against her back. His beard tickled the top of her head, and his furs brushed against her cheek. He smelled of meat stew and woodsmoke.

Slowly, she took her hands away from her mouth. Her fingers curled against his chest, clutching at the furs.

Her heart was beating very fast. She could not tell if it was because she was afraid. She certainly felt something very like fear – a strange kind of nervous guilt that made her wish she was tall enough to see over Tormund’s shoulder and keep her eyes on the door. Some small part of her – the part that had been battered into shape by Joffrey and Ramsay – still wondered if this was not some trick, and she would pull away from their embrace with an axe between her shoulder blades.

A much larger part of her knew that he would never dream of doing it.

A few tears rolled into the furs on Tormund’s chest. He held her a little tighter.

She knew she should pull away from him. If anyone saw them together it could spell disaster for them both. Her position was by no means secure: her smallfolk loved her, she thought, but her lords were not so easily led. If she gave them enough reason she could be cast out of Winterfell, or married off again, or stabbed in the back by the men who pledged her fealty. Tormund would certainly be killed, one way or another, and without him she could not say what would happen to the rest of the wildlings.

It could mean war in Winterfell.

She did not want to risk that.

But she did not want to pull away from him, either.

Brienne cleared her throat very loudly and went to stand in front of the doorway, blocking the entrance completely, but Sansa had already pulled away, tears streaming down her cheeks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Here's the next chapter - hope you all enjoy it! This one gets a bit creepy towards the end, so to compensate I slipped a meme reference in there to make me feel better. :P Don't be shy about leaving feedback - I love hearing what you guys think!

It had turned so cold in Winterfell that stepping outside the castle walls was almost unbearable. The snows were so fierce that Sansa could barely see more than a foot in front of her face, the blizzards so strong that only desperate men would venture through them. Any time she had to cross the courtyard, every breath of air would be like a knife slicing into her lungs. Inside the castle was little better. The windows had frozen shut long ago, and every morning there was a fresh snowdrift piled up against every door. Every man, woman and child she saw was swaddled in furs, squinting into the stinging wind, tears freezing on their cheeks.

It hit the wildlings hardest.

The twigs they relied on to build their fires were now a precious commodity; she half-expected Littlefinger to be selling them down in the trench. They made for poor fuel, as they froze solid, but still the wildings fought over them until blood was drawn. Several of them were already losing their noses to frostbite, and a good deal more of them would venture into the wolfswood, looking for food or firewood, and never return.

Worse still was the sense of crushing despair the cold seemed to instil in them. The mothers were the worst; she could hear them wailing and sobbing all across the castle courtyard.

It confused her, for she knew none of their children had died. Wildlings burned their dead; even through the blizzards she would have seen the smoke. She thought of asking Tormund, but they had not spoken since their brief embrace.

For a split second, she thought of asking Jon what he thought – he knew the wildlings well – but just as quickly, she pictured him lying chalky-faced and dreaming in his childhood bed, and her eyes filled with tears.

* * *

 

 

The crypts of Winterfell were never crowded – much of her smallfolk believed them to be haunted – but today, they seemed emptier than ever. Every sound she made echoed all the way around the cavernous stone halls, and the little lantern she carried cast long, flickering shadows across the floor.

She needed peace.

After Bran’s warning, she had commissioned the armoury to make more arrows and the masons to fortify the castle walls. Half her lords thought she was mad with grief, the other half suspected her of having had a secret message from the south and were gathering their bannermen. Either way, she had been plagued by their endless questions and complaints so often that the crypts were the only place she could get any peace; she had posted Brienne at the entrance with strict instructions not to let anyone in.

She had still not been to visit Jon.

She visited the maester very regularly – almost three or four times every day. She knew exactly how Jon fared – she made sure the maester told her everything, and in great detail – but she had not seen him.

It was easier that way. She had already watched her father die, and his death had been quick. If Jon did not recover, he would not go quickly. The sight of her father kneeling by the statue of Baelor the Blessed had haunted her for years. Now, with a fistful of blue winter roses clutched in one hand, it was hard not to wonder if she would be coming down to visit Jon in these empty, echoing halls. Her hands tightened on the flowers, the thorns digging into her skin.

She moved quietly through the crypts. Her footsteps echoed all around the halls and the lantern squeaked on its hinges, but otherwise it was the only sound. She headed down to the spot she had picked out for her father, mother and poor Robb. It was next to the statue of her aunt Lyanna, her uncle Brandon and her grand-sire, Lord Rickard. She had never met any of them, of course, but from the way her parents had always talked about them she knew that was where they would have wanted to be placed…

She faltered.

A man was kneeling on the floor, peering at the iron chest. The second he saw the light he sprang to his feet.

It was Littlefinger.

He smiled at her, and Sansa became incredibly aware of the fact that she was alone in the crypts with him, Brienne far above their heads, and that no-one would be coming down to her. Her grip tightened on the lantern, and the dragonglass candle pressed down against her forearm.

“Sansa, sweetling,” he said, walking towards her, “I’ve been praying for a chance to speak to you alone. Now it would seem Fate has granted me my wish.”

Sansa glanced at the chest. It did not look as though it had been tampered with, but at this distance she could not be sure. She kept her face blank, just to be safe.

“I fear this may not be as opportune a time as you might think, my lord. I would be poor company today; I came to pay my respects to my family.”

“As did I, my lady.”

She thought of how Littlefinger had betrayed her father to Cersei, and Sansa felt a little stab of anger in her stomach. She fought to keep it from showing on her face.

“Were you fond of my father, Lord Baelish?”

His face didn’t even flicker. It made her sick.

“I did not know him well, but he seemed a very honourable man. Your mother, on the other hand…I’m sure she must have told you how _close_ we once were.”

The way he said the word ‘close’ made her skin crawl.

“I’m afraid not, my lord. When my mother told me of her childhood, she only really spoke of her family. I did not know that you had been friends until I first met you, in King’s Landing.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. Sansa took advantage of the momentary silence and brushed past him, laying the blue winter roses at the foot of the chest. As she placed them on the ground, she took a quick look at the lock; it had not been tampered with.

When she straightened up, he was all but breathing down her neck.

“You look very like her, you know,” he muttered, reaching for her hand, “it’s almost as if she never left. When I look at you, I could be staring straight into my childhood.”

She took a sharp step away from him. “It does not do to dwell on the past, my lord.”

“You’re right. It would serve us much better to talk about our future, sweetling.”

Sansa’s mouth went very dry. She glanced over Littlefinger’s shoulder, towards the steps leading back up to the courtyard. They seemed a very long way off.

A long lock of her hair was dangling over her shoulder. Littlefinger reached out and touched it, running it through his long, pale fingers.

“I have news for you, my lady,” he said, pressing the lock of hair to his lips, “news about your sister.”

Her eyes widened. “Where is she? Have you found her? Is she safe?”

He let out a soft laugh. “You’re so eager, sweetling. Will you kiss me, if I tell you?”

Sansa forced herself to smile. “That will depend on what you tell me.”

He laughed again, and wound the lock of hair around his fingers. “Your sister is in Braavos, in the House of Black and White. From what I can tell she will be safe. The dragon queen rides west and burns the slave cities in her path, but she will not pass over Braavos on her way to King’s Landing.”

“Daenerys Targaryen is flying west?”

He nodded. “She intends to sit the Iron Throne, but I expect your friend Stannis will have something to say about that.”

Sansa ignored him. “What is the House of Black and White? Is it a convent?”

He laughed. “You are such a treasure, my lady. The House of Black and White is the home of the Faceless Men, sweetling. If it is a convent, it is one dedicated to sharing the Stranger’s greatest gift.”

It felt as if she had been plunged into cold water. She stepped away from him, sharply. “The Faceless Men? The assassins?”

The briefest flash of annoyance passed over Littlefinger’s face. “Yes, the assassins.”

“How can you stand there and call her safe?” Sansa snapped, “she’s among murderers! She’s the furthest from safe she could possibly be – you must bring her back here, at once! Oh, what they could be doing to her there…”

“Sweetling, one cannot simply walk into the House of Black and White and demand they hand someone over. They are assassins; it would take an army to retrieve your sister.”

She turned away from him. She had seen her chance.

Littlefinger placed his hands on her shoulders. He leaned in close, all but whispering in her ear. She could feel his breath on her neck.

“Sweetling,” he said, his fingers digging into her flesh, “I have done all that you asked of me. I have brought you the information you need. Marry me, and we can send the Northern army after your sister together. We’ll bring her home; it will be as if she never left. With you as my wife, nothing would ever harm your family again.”

“You promised me you would bring her back, _then_ I shall marry you. I cannot wed you on information alone, you know that.”

His hands tightened on her shoulders.

“Perhaps I should tell you another secret,” he hissed, anger flaring in his voice, “I know your father’s bones aren’t in that chest!”

She froze.

“The Queen charged me with bringing his bones back to Winterfell after he was executed,” Littlefinger spat, “I saw the chest that held his mortal remains with my own eyes, and that, my lady, is _not_ it.”

She stayed very still, thinking fast.

She could not afford to let him know what was in the chest, not before she needed to use it. He already knew it did not contain her father’s bones, but did he know what was really inside it? And just how much did he suspect she was capable of?

“You’re lying,” she mumbled, her voice loaded with uncertainty and doubt, “my lords…my lords swore they’d found my father’s bones. It…it must be them.”

She felt his grip relax a little. For good measure, she gave a little sniff and allowed tears to well up in her eyes.

“They wouldn’t lie to me,” she whimpered.

“What is in that chest, my lady?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

She fumbled for a handkerchief, thinking hard.

“I…I don’t know,” she mumbled, sniffing loudly, “I didn’t want to look inside. It came with a scroll from the Silent Sisters, and I knew they were the ones who took Father…who took Father’s body north. I didn’t think…I just couldn’t bear to look inside and see the place where the axe…where the axe…”

She burst into tears, burying her face in her handkerchief. After a moment’s sobbing, she whirled around, and caught the briefest flash of pity in his eyes.

“Oh gods,” she wailed, “what if it’s a trap? What if the Lannisters put something in the chest? Oh gods, I’ve been so blind…”

“Sweetling,” he said, putting his arms around her, “you have much to learn about the ways of men. We’ll have one of your smallfolk open the chest, if you think it’s trapped. Choose someone who won’t be missed, and if it’s anything you don’t want them to see we can kill him before he tells the tale.”

He spoke about her smallfolk as if they were little more than objects. She stiffened in his arms, and she knew he could feel it.

She forced herself to keep the anger from her voice. “I fear that cannot be the case, my lord. The chest is locked – I shall have to call in the locksmith. He has no apprentice skilled enough to take on his trade; if we were to kill him all our secrets would be left wide open.”

Littlefinger frowned. “Perhaps it would be wiser to wait.”

“Of course, you’re quite right. I shall post guards outside the crypts until the locksmith’s boys are properly trained; that way no-one will stumble across it.”

He smiled at her. “You’re learning fast, sweetling.”

She looked away, a coy expression on her face, anger burning in her heart. “I should return to the keep, my lord. I am expected to break bread with my lords but…would you come with me? I should feel much better, knowing you were there…”

She allowed her voice to tail off, allowed a hint of embarrassment to creep into her words. It worked. Littlefinger offered her his arm, and the two of them headed towards the stairs.

When they left the crypts, Sansa signalled to Brienne. As they walked away, guards were posted at the entrance, staring after Littlefinger’s retreating back.

* * *

 

 

Sansa had news from the south. The message was dated some weeks earlier, but the Tyrell smuggler had only just reached Winterfell. The poor man was slumped over a bowlful of stew, shivering violently; he had ridden straight through a snowstorm in order to reach her.

King’s Landing was in chaos.

The Faith Militant had smashed their way through anything they considered sinful, gutting all the brothels in the capital. Ladies had their jewels and finery torn away from them as they entered the sept, lords had their warhorses stolen for cart-mules in the middle of the night. The smallfolk fared little better. A man found to be sinful was shackled in the stocks and beaten by half the city; a woman was stripped naked, shaved all over and made to walk through the streets. With Loras and Margaery awaiting trial and their alliance with the Lannisters all but over, the Tyrells were running out of allies. Lady Olenna had written the letter herself, and asked that Sansa send men south for the sake of the friendship she had once had with her grand-daughter.

Sansa could barely read it, she was so distracted.

Jon had not yet recovered.

She sat in the godswood, underneath the weirwood tree. She had gone there to pray, but as she knelt before the tree all her words had failed her. Now, all she could do was play with a star-shaped leaf as red as blood that had fallen into her lap, rolling the stem between her fingers and watching the leaf spin like a top.

She had received another message, this one from Stannis. Offering no explanation, he asked her to send any man, woman or child who had been fathered by his brother Robert on their way south, to join him and his army. R’hllor demanded it.

She had written back at once, thinking of Littlefinger. She had urged him to press on south and purge the south of all its sins, and promised to search for any children borne of Robert’s line.

She wondered what R’hllor could want with Baratheon bastards.

Someone came hurtling into the godswood. It was a young serving-girl – Marya, Sansa thought her name was – and the second she saw her, Sansa jumped to her feet. Marya’s face was completely white, her eyes wide and frantic; she looked like a spooked animal itching to flee.

“Marya? What’s the matter?”

Marya did not stop to speak. She pointed back at the courtyard and all but threw herself at the foot of the weirwood tree. At first, Sansa thought she was sobbing, but then she realised that the girl was praying so frantically that tears were pouring down her face.

“Marya?”

Another servant came skidding into the godswood and threw themselves down before the weirwood tree; they were shortly followed by Harren the stonemason and Grainne, her red hair flying. Soon, a steady stream of smallfolk was hurtling towards the godswood, desperate to get away from the courtyard.

Still clutching the red leaf, Sansa squared her shoulders and left the godswood, picking her way around the mass of praying people. The dragonglass candle still sat along the length of her forearm; she cradled it to her chest.

It was little better in the courtyard. There was a crowd of people just in front of the North Gate, half of them on their knees and wailing, half of them sprinting away as fast as their legs could carry them. Sansa approached them cautiously, Brienne padding along at her side with her hand on the hilt of her sword. From the other side of the inner wall, she could hear the terrified screams of the wildlings, and the pounding of many fists on the stone.

Brienne drew her sword, pushing Sansa back behind her.

“If I say the word, my lady, you must run.”

“I will.”

They crept forward.

As one, the crowd was staring at the wall just above the North Gate. There was a strange wailing sound coming from somewhere nearby – a low, hollow kind of moan that did not sound human.

Her heart beating very fast, Sansa flexed her wrist. The dragonglass candle slipped forward into the palm of her hand and she seized it.

They stopped at the foot of the North Gate, staring straight upward. Brienne turned away, retching, and threw up into the snow.

Sansa could only stare. It seemed as though her very blood had turned to ice, freezing her to the spot.

The severed heads above the North Gate were moaning. Their empty mouths stretched wide, their rotted jaws straining against the iron spikes. She could not tell if they were trying to move or speak, but they could do neither. Their flesh was too stiff and decaying.

Sansa stared so long that her eyes felt hollow.

Bran had been right.

The White Walkers were coming.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN. Enjoy the latest chapter, guys - there aren't many of them left :P as always, don't let an impending ice zombie apocalypse stop you from leaving a comment - I always love hearing your feedback!

It took her a long time to go and see Jon. She was afraid of what she would find.

After she had seen the severed heads screeching on her battlements, she and Brienne had all but ran inside. There was no escaping it now. The White Walkers were coming, and bringing winter with them.

She had called a war council. It would take the best part of an hour for her servants to finish rounding up all her lords, the remnants of the Night’s Watch and the wildling chieftains. After the council had begun, she would need to ready the castle for the White Walkers’ attack. How long it would last – and whether she would survive it – she could not say.

It had been Brienne that had made her visit him. When she asked Sansa if she had seen her brother, and Sansa had said no, her sworn shield had said nothing – merely fixed her with a look so severe that Sansa had immediately felt as if she were six years old again. After that, it had not taken her long to realise that she was acting like she was six years old, too.

It could be her last quiet moment. She wanted to spend it with family.

It was time to say her goodbyes.

She was still clutching the star-shaped leaf. Held against her skirts, it looked like a spatter of blood on her dress.

Jon’s room was full of smoke. Whoever had built his fire had used green wood that had not been properly stored and dried, and the last traces of the moisture in the logs had filled the air with smoke as thick as fog. A large, white wolf lay curled at the foot of his bed; when she entered the room it looked up at her, blinking its red eyes very slowly.

It seemed to be watching her.

Jon lay beneath a mountain of furs. His black clothes were gone; they had been so covered in mud and blood that she was half-tempted to have them burned, but she could not afford to waste good cloth. All she could see of Jon was his face; she knew that the rest of him was covered in bandages.

She pulled up a stool by his bed and sat down. The white wolf padded over to her and laid its large head in her lap, staring up at her balefully. Her eyes were already streaming, but whether it was from the smoke or tears she could not say.

She placed the red leaf on Jon’s chest. Now that she had brought it inside, the sap that had frozen around its stalk was beginning to melt. When she took her hand away, it looked as if it was smeared with blood.

She had not felt his chest rise and fall.

Her eyes began to fill with tears. All she could see was a pale blur where his face should be and a bright red star on his chest. Trembling, she reached out a hand and laid it against his forehead.

He was cold.

He was dead.

A sob burst from her lips. She wailed like a lost child, tears streaming down her face. It felt as though every cry was being torn right out of her. The white wolf whined softly, its warm head pressing into her lap, and she clutched at the fur on the scruff of its neck and sobbed, doubled over.

She did not know how long she cried for. Gradually, her tears began to dry up, leaving tracks of salt all down her cheeks and a feeling of absolute exhaustion in her veins. When she took her hands away from Jon’s wolf, there were strands of white fur all over her hands.

Someone knocked at the door.

She stood up, sniffing loudly and straightening her skirts, sending Jon’s wolf padding off into a corner. She took a deep breath. “Come in.”

Howland Reed entered. If she had not been watching the door, she would not have known it; he moved so quietly she could never have heard him coming. His green eyes flickered over her tear-stained face and Jon’s pale, lifeless body. He crossed the room in three strides and produced a handkerchief from nowhere, offering it to her.

She took it, a lump already forming in her throat.

“Was it quick?”

“I…I don’t know. I hope so.”

The two of them stood in silence, watching him through the smoke. The smell was so strong that for a moment, Sansa was reminded of Melisandre.

“I should have liked to have known him properly,” Lord Reed muttered, “he was a babe in arms when I first met him. I always wondered what sort of man he would become.”

“You knew Jon?”

“Of course. I journeyed back to Winterfell with your father after Robert’s Rebellion.”

She nodded, and turned back to Jon. He seemed younger, somehow. He could have almost been asleep.

“I always thought he would look more like his father,” said Lord Reed, “but I suppose there was too much Stark in him.”

It took her a moment to realise what he meant. Then she turned and stared at him.

“What do you mean? My lord, we have…my brother and I had the same father.”

Lord Reed shook his head, very slowly.

“Your father kept it a secret, for fear that someone might harm Jon as they did for the Targaryen princes. He never fathered a bastard, my lady. Jon is… _was_ the child of his sister, Lyanna, and the Crown Prince Rhaegar.”

She stared at him.

“Jon is…that can’t be right. He’s a Stark. He can’t be a Targaryen born of rape! He’s…he’s my brother…”

Lord Reed gave her a very sad smile. “I do not know what passed between his parents, my lady, but Lyanna loved him dearly. She died birthing him, and made your father and I swear to protect the child with our lives. Only the gods know if Lyanna loved Rhaegar, but _I_ know she loved Jon.”

Sansa stared down at Jon. He had grown up without knowing his mother, and now, she realised he had not known his father either. For the first time in her life, she realised just how lonely he must have been.

Howland Reed placed a gentle hand on her elbow. “I came to bring you to the war council, my lady.”

She wiped her eyes on the handkerchief. “Yes, of course.”

She bent down and pressed a kissed to Jon’s forehead. It was cold to the touch, and his hair smelt of smoke. A few tears rolled down her cheeks and landed on his head, and further down the bed she could see her red, star-shaped leaf bleeding sap all over his chest.

For a moment she felt very strange. For a split second she was incredibly aware of every little detail in the room. There were flecks of ash spitting out from the fireplace, a fine dusting of white wolf hairs on one side of the bed, and a shimmering pattern of dust motes wafting through the air. She felt as though life had slowed down for a moment, as if something important was about to happen.

She straightened up and dried the last of her tears. Then, she squared her shoulders and headed into her solar, ready for the war council.

* * *

 

 

Her tears had dried by the time she entered her solar. Brienne had sworn that no man could have told that she had been crying, and Howland Reed had said the same.

She could not afford to seem weak now.

Her lords were already screaming at each other. Lord Manderley slumped in his chair, pale and sweating. The Greatjon and Tormund Giantsbane were yelling into each other’s faces, veins standing out on their necks. Maege Mormont, Littlefinger and Lord Ryswell were hunched over a map on the table, each of them jabbing their fingers at different spots. Only the men of the Night’s Watch were silent; they stood huddled around the fire with long, drawn faces.

A slow, cold fury was building up inside her.

They screamed and snapped at each other while dead men howled on the walls and her brother lay cold in his bed. Even now, when death was staring them all in the face, they would rather turn on each other than meet their enemy.

Several of the lords closest to the doors had already fallen quiet, bowing their heads as she entered. The Night’s Watch followed suit, and slowly, a puddle of silence spread all across the room.

Her hands curled into fists.

“Are you children?” she hissed, contempt loaded in her every syllable.

“Lady Stark –”

“My lady, please –”

“This arsehole thinks he’s –”

“I’ll have your head, wildling!”

She slammed her hand down onto the table so hard that it rocked on its legs. They fell quiet again.

“An army of the dead is marching on Winterfell,” she said, her voice very quiet, “we do not know how close they are, or how many they are, or how strong they are. And you choose to turn on each other? These could be your last hours on this earth, and _this_ is how you choose to spend them?”

The silence billowed around her. None of her lords would meet her eyes. She swept past them all, her footsteps echoing in the quiet, and sat down at the head of the table.

Everyone else in the room scrabbled their way into a chair.

Sansa signalled to the castle steward, who was hovering awkwardly in the doorway. “Have the smallfolk brought in from Winter Town. Put lookouts all around the battlements; I want eyes on every side. Seal every passage that passes through the outer wall and move the wildlings into the courtyard. I want the trench completely clear. When everyone is safely behind the inner wall, seal all the entrances. Open them for no-one. I want it done within an hour.”

The steward scurried out the door as her council broke into muttering.

“But Lady Stark, our lands…” Lord Manderley whimpered.

“Is that wise, my lady?” Lord Ryswell asked, his voice quiet, “the wildlings…”

Tormund pushed his chair back. “You want to take this outside, southerner?”

She held up a hand. “Giantsbane, please. Lord Manderley, if you think you can reach your lands before the Walkers reach _you_ , you are welcome to leave. And Lord Ryswell – The Walkers can raise the dead. If we leave the wildlings undefended we add them to their army. From what I have heard, I would much rather have them on our side.”

Tormund settled back in his chair, smirking at Lord Ryswell.

A man from the Night’s Watch – Edd, she thought his name was – leaned forward in his chair. “You can’t last in a siege against the Walkers, milady. They’ll scale the walls.”

“He’s right,” muttered Littlefinger, his eyes darting all around the room, “we should head south, my lady. You have friends in the Riverlands – and the Vale, of course. I have a ship in Whiteharbour; you could leave this all behind.”

“ _No_.”

There was no anger in her voice. There was only a contempt so strong that Littlefinger recoiled from her, fear scrawled all over his face. The rest of the lords shifted in their seats.

The Greatjon leaned forward. There was a sad little half-smile on his face.

“You’re a brave one, milady,” he said, “you’ve done your father proud. But you’ve no experience in battle, or war councils neither. If you stayed here and sat through the Walkers’ siege, like as not you’d die. Your father wouldn’t want that.”

For a moment, she hesitated. She knew that what the Greatjon said was true, and kindly meant at that.

But it was not an option.

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” she said. “I have no intention of abandoning my home. I know my castle, and I know my lands; this is where I belong. And if this is where I shall die, then so be it.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tormund looking at her.

“But for that matter, I have absolutely no intention of dying just yet.”

She signalled to a serving man as her lords broke into muttering.

“Take six strong men and bring back the iron chest from the crypts. And send a message to the outer walls – I want archers posted all along the battlements. Make sure they have plenty of scraps of cloth and flaming torches to hand; the serving women will provide them.”

“At once, milady.”

He left. The muttering grew louder as her lords exchanged glances. Only Howland Reed was quiet, a slow smile spreading across his face.

Maege Mormont gave her a sceptical look. “Cloth, milady?”

Sansa smiled.

“Edd,” she said, “would you be so good as to tell us what harms the Walkers and their wights?”

All eyes turned to Edd. He scratched his nose, the tops of his ears slowly turning red.

“Dragonglass, Valyrian steel, and fire,” he muttered, shrinking down into his chair.

“Precisely,” she said. “My lords, you must forgive me; I have deceived you.”

Littlefinger looked up, sharply. She ignored him.

“Some time ago I came into possession of a certain chest that was being carried north by Lannister forces. The chest was full of wildfire – a substance which will burn anything in its path when lit. The Lannisters intended to use it as a weapon against us, but fortunately, Lord Reed was able to intercept the chest before they could carry out their plans. As I’m sure you understand, I had to keep a weapon of this nature a secret – its destructive potential is enormous – but now its time has come.”

She stood up, placing her hands on the table and leaning forward. Her voice was quiet, but the room was quieter; they hung on her every word.

“I will give every archer a jar of wildfire and when the Walkers come, we will watch them _burn_.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha so I stayed up late to finish this chapter and I bet you anything I'm going to be late for work tomorrow. You guys will have to let me know if it's worth it :P as always, hope you guys enjoy this one and don't be shy about leaving feedback - always love hearing what you think!

Sansa stood in the castle courtyard, waiting.

The case of wildfire had been brought into the armoury; Littlefinger glaring at her all the while. There was a stack of jars behind every three archers, secured in place by tightly packed snow. The archers themselves ran all along the battlements, with flaming torches wedged into the snow at their sides. Every man, woman and child who could wield a bow stood on those walls. Almost all of her lords were up there too, each one commanding a different section of the walls. Brienne and Tormund stood on the walls too, not far from her. Neither of them favoured the bow, but both of them had insisted they had a place on the walls.

The sole exceptions were Lord Manderley – who had been too fat to shoot a bow for years – and Littlefinger. They were both sheltering in the castle with the elderly, the children, and those who could not fight.

Soon, she would join them.

A gust of wind swept through the courtyard. It was so cold it seemed to slice right through her. The Walkers were close.

She could feel the dragonglass candle weighing down her arm.

A steady trickle of people were coming out of the godswood, sprinting into the safety of the castle keep. All of them were pale and frightened, their eyes roving all around the courtyard as they ran. She was half-tempted to join them, but there were too many eyes on her.

She cleared her throat. It echoed.

“Good luck,” she called, her voice ringing all across the courtyard, “may the gods protect and keep you all.”

She headed towards the keep, heat spreading through her cheeks. Robb and Bran had always told her about the grand speeches great leaders made before they led their armies into battle. What she had just said would barely qualify as a courtesy note…

The heads above the North Gate still wailed, but someone – and Sansa highly suspected it was Tormund – had grown irritated with their moaning and had stuffed their mouths full of rocks and snow. They still made a sound, but it was more like whimpering.

This was different.

The only thing she could be sure of was that it was coming from a very long way off. Part of it almost reminded her of leaves rustling, but the sound was louder, and drier, and heavier than that. There was a deeper sound underlying the first, but yet somehow, it was not deep: it was a kind of hoarse screeching that seemed to be high and low at the same time. But loudest of all was the rumbling, like thunder before the lightening, and as it grew louder still she felt the ground tremble beneath her feet.

A sickeningly cold fear seeped into the pit of her stomach.

They were coming.

She knew she should go back to the keep. It was safe there, and warm, and standing in the courtyard she could only get in the way of her own troops. There were people who needed her guidance there, people who would remember her leadership – or her absence.

And yet, she did not go inside.

She entered the castle, but instead of heading to the keep she ran straight for the Broken Tower, taking the stairs two at a time. When she finally came to the window she was red-faced and sweating, and when the wind cut through her she could feel her sweat freezing on her cheeks.

She stared out of the window.

An army of the dead had descended on Winterfell.

She could see them advancing on the outer wall, ploughing through the snow as if it were water.  It was they who made that unnatural noise, coming from mouths that could barely remember what it was to be human. There were so many of them that they seemed to be little more than a rolling sea, clawing and scrabbling over each other, desperate for flesh.

Here and there she caught a glimpse of a skeletal arm, or a half-rotted face, or a chest that had been cleaved in two centuries before. They were dressed in tattered scraps that had withered away long ago, clutching weapons that had rusted, or splintered, or fused to their hands in a mess of decaying flesh. But most frightening of all were their eyes: even from this distance, she could see they were an unnatural, glowing blue.

Then, the archers started firing.

At first it was only a spatter of flaming arrows that went out as quickly as they struck their targets. For a moment she was seized with a sudden horror – she had failed, she had failed them all – but then, the wildfire ignited.

She did not see who had thrown the fateful jar, or who had shot the arrow that set it alight, but all at once there was green fire blazing all around the walls of Winterfell. It spread like a flood, barrelling through the ranks of the wights and consuming everything in its path.

Still, they came. They did not seem to feel the fire, or even care it was there until they had burned into ash.

She squinted into the distance.

Beyond the mass of the dead, there was a tall, pale figure sitting astride an enormous beast. It drew its sword, and even from this distance she could see the silvery flash of the blade. It could only be the Walker that was commanding the wights.

Doubt prickled at the back of her mind. Jon had said there was more than one Walker…

Her heart hammering in her chest, she headed back down the stairs.

* * *

 

 

Sansa had been confined to the keep for hours.

Every man, woman and child who was not on the walls of Winterfell was crowded into the main hall. The lord’s chair was the only empty seat. Her smallfolk sat on benches along the walls, on tables, under tables, up against the wall, and some had simply lain down on the floors, shivering by the hearth and making all the rushes rustle.

Only the smallest children were calm. They slept, their heads resting on their mothers’ knees, or their sisters’ shoulders. They were the only ones who could.

Everyone else was terrified.

When she had first entered the hall someone had been screaming, rocking back and forth in a corner and howling like a wounded animal. It was a woman with a tiny baby clutched to her chest, and her screams were making the children cry and the adults clench their fists. Sansa had given the woman some milk of the poppy, and she had soon become quiet. After she had drifted off to sleep, the children began to stop crying, and the hall settled into relative silence.

There were still tears on almost every cheek.

She did what she could. She had sung a few hymns and encouraged her smallfolk to join in; the wildlings knew none of them, so it echoed all around the hall in a strangely eerie way. She never sat still, preferring to circulate – she would stop at little groups of smallfolk, offer them a few words or mouthfuls of cold broth and move on, trying to keep them calm. Lord Manderley – who was pale-faced and sweating – had soon cottoned onto her strategy. He was telling stories to anyone who would listen, and had a small group of children clustered around the foot of his chair. He spoke like a man much older than his sixty years, and most of his stories seemed to end with him slipping on things and falling over, but it seemed to work. No-one was laughing, but a few of them were smiling. Princess Shireen was trying to do the same with some of the smaller children, playing an elaborate and complicated game with a little wooden carving of a stag that Ser Davos had given her. Sansa did not understand it, but the children seemed to, and Shireen was very good at keeping the panic from showing on her face.

Littlefinger was nowhere to be seen.

The sounds of the battle – and of the howling, moaning wights – were seeping through the glass.

An old wildling woman appeared at Sansa’s elbow. She was clutching a squirming bundle of rags and fur, and within seconds, a tiny arm wriggled out of the material, and after a few seconds of frantic flailing, a tiny face appeared. The baby was already twice as big as she remembered, but she recognised it instantly; it was Tormund’s ward. She smiled down at the little boy and tickled him under his chin, and he grabbed her finger.

The wildling woman tugged her finger out of the baby’s grip.

“Let me take him into the godswood,” she rasped, her voice very quiet, “get a blessing from the old gods. It’ll bring him luck.”

“I don’t think that’s wise. He’s very young, he ought not to be out in the cold for too long…”

The old woman jutted her chin out, fixing Sansa with a belligerent glare. “You tellin’ me how I oughtta to worship my gods, girly? You Southerners can’t stop us from prayin’!”

Sansa glanced around the hall. Lord Manderley faltered in his storytelling. The wildlings who had stayed behind were all looking up at her, glaring.

“Anyone who wishes to pray may do so,” she said, raising her voice a little, “but you must agree that it is far too dangerous to go out there alone. If you take too long I’ll send someone after you. Large groups only, please.”

Half the wildlings in the hall jumped to their feet and stalked out the door. The old woman went with them, clutching the baby to her chest.

The hall seemed even larger and emptier without them.

Soon, the wildlings filtered back inside, shuffling along in twos and threes. Sansa counted them as they entered, making sure they were all accounted for.

They were not.

It took her a moment to realise it, but the old woman was not holding Tormund’s boy.

It felt as if something was clawing at her stomach. She got to her feet, feeling cold all over, her hands shaking.

Very slowly, she walked over to the old woman.

“Where is the baby?” she asked, her voice quiet.

At once, the hall fell silent.

The old woman said nothing. She merely jutted her chin out, glaring up at Sansa.

Sansa grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “ _Where_ is the baby? What have you done with him?”

The old woman let out a little cry of shock. “I ain’t done nothing!”

“Where _is_ he?”

“He’s got no family, no-one to miss him! That’s all they want, that’s all they’ve ever wanted! Give ’em the odd bastard now and then and The Others never bother no-one!”

The last of Sansa’s self-control vanished.

Before she could stop herself she had lashed out and struck the woman across the face with the back of her hand, so hard that the dragonglass candle thudded against her arm. She pushed her way through the crowd, her heart beating so fast it felt like it was rattling, and threw open the doors to the keep.

Outside, everything was a mass of white. A blizzard raged all around her, making it impossible to see more than two feet in front of her face. The cold cut right through her, making her many layers of fur and wool feel like paper. She sprinted across the courtyard, wading through feet of fresh snow, disgust and panic rising at the back of her throat like vomit.

It was so cold it hurt to breathe.

Then, she saw him – a tiny dark blot by the entrance to the godswood.

She darted forward, forcing her way through the snow. She skidded to a halt and stumbled, landing hard on her knees, but she did not care. She scooped up the little bundle of furs and clutched it to her chest, breathing hard.

She felt the little baby wriggling against her chest, and let out a sob of relief.

She eased herself to her feet. There was a strap attached to the bundle of furs – evidently, the baby was still living in Tormund’s travelling pack – and she put it over her shoulder, keeping the baby close to her chest. Then, she wrapped her cloak around her – taking great care to hold it close over the little baby’s head – and headed back towards the castle.

The blizzard was so strong she could barely see her own feet, let alone the keep. On a clear day, it would dominate the skyline for miles around; usually, this close to the castle it would be all she was able to see. Now, with the wind stinging at her cheeks and snow flying into her eyes, it was if her home had simply vanished…

There was an incredibly loud _boom_.

The sound was so deep it seemed to resonate in her bones, and so loud that it actually hurt. Something shook underneath her feet and she staggered sideways, clutching the baby and trying to regain her balance.

When she straightened up, the blizzard had vanished. The wind had died. And yet, it was colder than it had ever been, so cold her skin almost felt like it was burning.

Fear flooded through her.

She turned around.

Something that looked almost like a man had leapt right over the castle walls. The archers had already seen it, and within seconds, half a dozen arrows had slammed into its back.

It straightened up.

It was a cold, dead _thing_. Impossibly tall and frighteningly thin, anything that might have made it once seem human had withered away, leaving skin like cracked ice or frozen bark. It was dressed in frozen rags that hung off its emaciated frame, exposing the desiccated-looking skin beneath. Wisps of hair clung to its head, covered in frost, and clutched in one hand was a sword that seemed to be hewn from the ice itself.

The baby began to cry.

The Walker saw her.

It lifted its pale head and stared right at her, its blue eyes glowing.

A few more arrows thudded into its back, each one set aflame. The arrows hit the monster with a sound like cracking ice and a puff of steam.

It did not appear to feel them.

It strode towards her.

All the feeling seemed to have leeched right out of her legs. It was as if they were frozen too. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to run – her hands were shaking, her heart was pounding, her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps – but she could not move.

She was too afraid.

There were faces pressed against the windows of the keep. On the walls, the archers were yelling at her to move. She heard Brienne’s voice, and out of the corner of her eye she saw her sworn shield drop her bow and sprint towards the stairs that led down from the walls.

The Walker stopped in front of her.

It towered over her, standing at well over eight feet tall, fixing her with its glowing blue eyes.

Slowly, it extended one long, bony hand, as if it was waiting for her to place something in its palm.

It wanted the child.

Just as slowly, Sansa tugged on the strap that held the baby in place. She shifted the child around until it was resting safely on her back, and shook her head.

The hand shot out and grabbed her neck.

There was a wordless yell from somewhere over the creature’s shoulder, and seconds later, a soft _thump_. Seconds later she saw Tormund Giantsbane, covered in snow, pick himself up from the middle of a snowdrift and start sprinting towards her.

The creature began to squeeze.

It lifted her right off the ground, still squeezing, until she was gasping for air and she was level with its glowing, icy eyes. She felt a sharp stab of pain in her throat, clawing at the thing’s hand, kicking frantically at its chest.

It did not flinch.

Tormund was still hurtling towards her, struggling through the snow. Brienne had finally made it to the bottom of the tower and was not far behind.

Blackness crept in at the edges of her vision. She knew that neither of them would make it in time.

She was choking, spluttering, gasping for air. Darkness crept in on all sides and all she could see was the thing’s awful blue eyes. It would be the last thing she would ever see. She would never see herself grow old, never see her home in the spring again, never see the North standing strong again. She would never fall in love, never marry a man she trusted, never have children. There would never be another Stark in Winterfell…

_No_ , she thought. _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._

She stopped clawing at the creature’s hand.

Instead, she flexed her wrist, caught the dragonglass candle in the palm of her hand, and stabbed the creature right in one of its glowing, blue eyes.

It let out a scream like glaciers grinding against rocks and released her at once. She fell to the floor, her hands and knees disappearing into the snow, gasping down great lungfuls of air. Colour and light flooded back into her vision, her head reeling, as she staggered to her feet.

The Walker stopped screaming, and exploded into tiny chips of ice.

There was utter silence.

Every face at the window of the keep was staring at her, open-mouthed. Every archer on the walls was staring too, their eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. Brienne had dropped her sword, her eyes wide. Tormund Giantsbane had skidded to a halt and fallen to his knees, looking at her as if she held the sun in the palm of her hand.

A sudden anger flashed within her.

“Did I give you permission to stop fighting?” she screamed at the archers, “did I tell you to put down your weapons? I gave you a job to do and if those wights aren’t a pile of _ash_ within the next ten minutes I’ll come up there and set them alight myself!”

There was a split second’s silence.

Then, they erupted into cheering. The archers turned back to the walls, tossing jars of wildfire down into the teeming mass of wights and laughing. Green fire and smoke ballooned upwards, leaving an acrid smell in the air, and in the courtyard, Tormund Giantsbane let out a laugh of disbelief and Brienne began to cry.

Sansa swivelled her pack around and peered inside. The baby was still crying, so she wrapped her arms around it and rubbed its back a little, making soothing noises.

Tormund was on his feet in a flash, staggering towards her. “What happened?”

“Someone left him out for the Walkers. I was bringing him back when it came over the walls. Don’t worry, he’s all right. I’ve been keeping him under my cloak, he was quite warm.”

For a moment he simply looked at her. There were tears in his eyes.

He took her hand in his and stared into her eyes. She expected him to squeeze her fingers so hard that it would hurt, but he was so gentle she felt almost ashamed for thinking it.

“Name it,” he said, his voice hoarse, “anything you ask for. It’s yours.”

“Come back safe,” she muttered, her voice quiet.

He gave her hand a squeeze and went back to the walls.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Hopefully this one won't make me late to work tomorrow morning :P as always, don't be shy about leaving feedback - always love hearing what you guys think!

The archers came back in just when Sansa’s eyes were beginning to close.

She was absolutely exhausted. When she had come back into the hall, she had been surrounded by a flood of cheering people, all of them trying to slap her on the back or press her hand to their lips. She had ordered the wildling woman to be tied up – there was no sense taking her down to the dungeons with the wights outside and the jailer fighting on the walls – and had collapsed into the lord’s chair, still clutching Tormund’s ward.

Now, the back of her hand was aching from where she had struck the wildling, her legs seemed completely unable to hold her weight, and her throat hurt so much she almost wanted to cry. The baby seemed happy, at least – he was sitting on her knee and gnawing on her finger. It did not hurt at all, as his teeth had not yet come through, but she had drool all over her hand and he grizzled whenever she tried to take her finger out of the reach of his gums.

The doors opened.

Every head in the hall snapped up.

Her lords stood in the doorway, Tormund, Brienne and the last members of the Night’s Watch among them. Several exhausted archers stood behind them. At once, her smallfolk let out a cheer, but it died out quickly.

None of them were smiling.

“Lady Stark,” the Greatjon rumbled, “a word?”

She stood up at once. The baby whined when she took her finger out of his mouth and handed him over to a serving-woman, but she gave him a wooden spoon to chew on and he soon quietened down.

Her lords were not so easily appeased.

She swept from the room, closing the doors behind her.

“What is it?”

“The wights have been burned, milady,” the Greatjon muttered, “and you did for the Walker. But…well, some of the lads don’t think we got ’em all.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

“What?”

Edd was glaring at the Greatjon. “We don’t _think_ we didn’t get ’em all, milord, we _know_ it. I’ve seen the Walkers more than once now, and that wasn’t all their army.”

“The crow’s right,” Tormund said, “there was only one Walker here. There were at least thirteen at Hardhome.”

Sansa covered her mouth. She could feel her hands shaking.

“Where are the rest of them?” she whispered.

Howland Reed sighed. “They could be anywhere, my lady. They could have already passed us by – or, the wights we faced could have simply been the vanguard for a much larger army.”

Sansa closed her eyes, thinking hard. Panic was rising up in the pit of her stomach. Her whole body was trembling now. She wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and wake up to discover that this had all been a bad dream, but she knew she could never be so lucky.

She had thought that she was safe…

“How many jars of wildfire are left?” she asked, her voice hoarse.

“Less than a quarter of what was in the chest. Three or four dozen, at most.”

“And how many arrows?”

“A few hundred. Not more than five for each man.”

“And do we have any dragonglass? Any Valyrian steel?”

She already knew the answer to that question.

“Not enough, my lady.”

She nodded, and opened her eyes.

“Bar the entrance to the crypts. Post lookouts on the walls. Divide the archers into three groups – the first shall be standing by on the battlements, the rest can try to get some sleep. I’ll leave you to make the arrangements for the shift, but I want all sides covered. Put anyone who can fletch an arrow to work; we need more and I don’t care how you make them. I’ll make arrangements for the men to be fed; they need to keep their strength up. Send the wounded to the maester and toss the dead over the walls – we’ll burn them with the rest of the wights.”

The Greatjon gave her a very sad smile. “As you command, milady.”

She led them back into the hall. Brienne put a hand on her shoulder.

“You should get some rest, my lady.”

“I can’t. There’s too much to do. I’ll have to organise the food, make sure the maester has enough supplies, find materials to make the arrows, draw up the inventories –”

“Sansa,” Brienne hissed, “you just stabbed a White Walker in the eye. For gods’ sake, go to bed!”

She went.

* * *

 

 

_There was smoke everywhere._

_It filled her eyes, her nose, her mouth – all she could see, and taste, and feel was billowing grey clouds._

_She could hear far more. Swords clashed in the distance, the swift thrum of arrows shot through the air, and men screamed for mercy and glory in the same breath. From further afield came the pounding of many drums and a distant song. It almost reminded her of the hymns she had sung in the sept, but they had not been quite so bloodthirsty._

_“Milady,” came a voice, “we have brought you the king.”_

_There was a swift snap of canvas and light sliced through her vision. She caught a brief glimpse of a slumped body and a spiralling swirl of red._

_“Put him here. No, on the pyre.”_

_There was the sound of shuffling feet, a low groan and the sound of logs shifting._

_“You must believe,” came a woman’s voice, low and self-assured, “Azor Ahai shall be reborn in the flames of R’hllor. The true king will return to us.”_

_There was another snapping of canvas and an explosion of shouting. Someone was bellowing, their feet scuffing on the floor as they darted forward, and soon she heard the thud of fists on flesh._

_“Are you mad?” a man screamed, “he needs a maester! For gods’ sake, woman, get him off that pyre!”_

_“There is only one god, Ser Davos, and he will bring Azor Ahai back to us. You know little of the ways of R’hllor. I cannot let you interfere.”_

_There was more scuffling, more thumping, and the snap of canvas again. She could still hear the man shouting, but it seemed to be coming from much further away._

_“Give me the torch.”_

_There was a flash of light, a burst of heat, an unbearable pain, and –_

Sansa’s eyes snapped open.

She was covered in sweat and breathing hard. She was lying in her bed, buried under a mountain of furs, but it felt as though she had been running for miles.

She sat up, slowly. Her arms were shaking.

It did not feel as if she had slept at all. When she had returned to her chambers she had been utterly convinced that she would never sleep again, and that all she would see when she closed her eyes was the cold, dead face of the White Walker.

In reality, she had fallen asleep before her head had even hit the pillow.

There was a knock at her door. She splashed her face with cold water as quickly as she could.

“Come in,” she called, her voice still hoarse.

It was Brienne. Her face was ashen. Sansa felt a lead weight settle into her stomach.

“They’re here, aren’t they?”

Brienne nodded.

“Are the archers on the walls?”

“Yes. There aren’t many arrows, my lady. We made as many as we could, but…”

Sansa got to her feet. She still ached – especially her throat – but she supposed it did not matter now.

She tugged her dress back into place and fastened her cloak about her shoulders. She should not have slept in her clothes, but she had been so tired. Now they were crumpled, and her hair was a mess, too. She picked apart the tangles and put it into a braid, her fingers shaking all the while.

She tucked the dragonglass candle back into her sleeve.

“I wish there was time to have you fitted for armour,” Brienne muttered, as they headed down to the courtyard, “you would be so much safer then.”

Sansa laughed. “Me, in armour? Brienne, I could hardly stand up in a full suit of plate. I’d only be safe if I didn’t have to lift my arms.”

Brienne gave her a little smile.

Soon, they were in the courtyard. The archers were already on the walls, but the wights were a long way off. They were only a dark mass in the distance, but she could already hear them.

All her archers looked exhausted. Some of them were still blinking the sleep from their eyes. Most of them did not look as though they had slept at all. Their faces were ashen, with large, dark circles under their eyes. They stood slumped over, leaning on their bows as if they were walking sticks, their knees sagging underneath them.

She climbed up onto the walls.

She did what she could, and spoke to each one – man and woman alike, smallfolk or wildling. She promised to keep their wives, their children and their parents safe in the keep – or at least, as safe as she could make them. She asked after their families, their livelihoods, and tried to make them think of a time when the battle would finally be over.

She only said a few words to them, but when she finished they stood a little taller.

Finally, she came to the North Gate.

The severed heads were missing, and Tormund was standing near the spikes, wiping his hands on his trousers. She peered over the walls. As she suspected, there were five dark splatters on the snow.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I got sick of listening to ’em,” he said, “you’d think once you’d killed a bugger he’d learn to shut his mouth.”

In spite of herself, she laughed.

“You got your little dagger?”

She nodded. “I don’t think I’ll ever put it down.”

“Good.”

There was a very long silence.

“Almost thought that dead bastard was trying to kiss you,” he muttered, “your mouth would’ve froze off.”

She laughed again. “And why should a White Walker try and kiss me?”

He gave her a sidelong look. “Your eyes are bluer than theirs.”

Heat rose in her cheeks.

“I hope you aren’t implying that I look like a reanimated corpse, Giantsbane,” she said, trying to suppress a smile.

He changed tack faster than blinking. “Your hair, then. Kissed by fire, the free folk call it. Walkers get funny about stuff like that.”

“Kissed by fire,” she mused, smiling, “I like that. Does it mean we’re lucky?”

Both of them glanced beyond the walls. The dark mass of wights was growing closer. She could hear the rumbling of their feet, and the strange, inhuman cries their dead mouths made.

He took her hand, and squeezed it gently.

“Let’s find out.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END IS NIGH. Leave your comments before the ice zombie apocalypse hits :P

Sansa’s hands were bleeding.

She had been trying to make arrows with the rest of the people locked in Winterfell’s keep. The wildlings were particularly good at it; they were teaching her and her smallfolk alike how to whittle down a piece of wood into a straight line. The wildlings used sharp rocks and bronze blades, and her smallfolk used castle-forged steel.

Sansa had been terrible at both.

Her hands were shaking so badly that almost every time she tried, the steady, scraping strokes that everyone else had perfected would glance off the shaft of the arrow and leave a web of tiny cuts all over her hands. In the end, someone had taken her pile of arrow shafts away from her and asked her to sort the fletchings into piles instead.

That was when the door to the keep had been opened, and an old serving-man with blood trickling down the side of his face had rushed in.

“Milady,” he wheezed, “it’s Lord Baelish. He’s saddling a horse…”

She jumped to her feet at once and darted out of the door.

It was bitterly cold outside, so cold that her bleeding hands stung as if they had just been dipped in hot water. The dry roar of the wights was louder than ever, the sound of thousands of feet drumming on the ground ringing in her ears, all coming from the North Gate. She pulled on her gloves as quickly as possible and headed towards the stables.

The serving-man had been right.

Littlefinger was dragging a reluctant horse from the stables, tugging on the reins so hard that all the tendons on his neck stood out. The poor beast was snorting and stamping, its eyes rolling in fear, but the one thing Sansa could not help but notice was the bulging saddlebags hanging over its flanks. She caught a glimpse of silver and sapphires peeking through the half-open flap, and remembered a necklace her mother had worn that had looked just like it.

He was stealing from her…

“Lord Baelish!” she snapped, “where are you going?”

He flinched so badly he almost stumbled. He straightened up, facing her, his face perfectly expressionless.

“Lady Stark,” he muttered, “I’m afraid urgent business has called me south. It’s unavoidable, I’m afraid, I really must…”

“Don’t be absurd. If you go out there you’ll be killed! Where could you possibly go now?”

He shook his head frantically. There was a gleam in his eye that she did not like.

“They’re concentrated around the North Gate; I can slip out the South Gate and ride for Whiteharbour.”

“If you’ll open those gates you’ll condemn us all!”

“You’ll be safe, if you come with me.”

She stared at him.

“We’ll ride to Whiteharbour; my ship is safely docked there. We can sail to Braavos – we’ll find your sister! That’s what you want, isn’t it, my sweetling –”

“No! This is madness, Baelish, you must see that! Thousands will die if you open those –”

“I won’t _die_ here, Sansa!”

“I won’t let you open those gates!”

He moved like a snake.

Before she could so much as blink he had grabbed her around the waist with one hand, pulling her close. The other hand held a dagger to her ribs.

“You don’t have a choice,” he hissed, “you’re to be my wife and you will do as I say.”

Panic fluttered in her stomach. Brienne and Tormund were on the walls, Jon was dead, and if she made any sudden movements Littlefinger’s blade would slice right through her dress and spill blood all over the snow…

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered. She could hear her own voice shaking.

He pressed the dagger into her side. Something ripped.

“Won’t I?”

Suddenly, the horse snorted in alarm and reared up on its hind legs. Littlefinger looked over his shoulder, just for a second, and Sansa seized her chance.

She gave him a short, sharp shove. She whirled around, ready to run – surely she could make it across the courtyard, or even to the walls, before he caught up with her…

She sprinted away from him, towards the entrance to the keep. She heard Littlefinger swearing and his horse screaming over the howling, moaning roar of the wights, their dead, dry bodies slamming into the walls of Winterfell and making the ground shake. The archers would never see her – the wights were here, crawling over each other in an attempt to scale the walls. Her only hope was to make it inside, to hope that the sight of all those onlookers would be enough to make him back down…

She could hear him running after her. Her dress tangled around her legs as she half-waded through the snow, her heart pounding. She glanced over her shoulder – he was close, far closer than she thought he would be –

– and she ran straight into someone.

It was a man in full armour. There was a dull, metallic clang as she smacked into him. It sounded curiously hollow, and she felt his armour shifting when she smacked into him – clearly, it did not fit him well. She turned to look at him, but all she could see was that he was tall and wore mismatched armour. The only remarkable thing about him was his shield, which was very crudely made, with a laughing weirwood tree painted in flaking red and white paint.

He didn’t even draw his sword.

He just pulled her out of the way, strode forward and punched Littlefinger right in the jaw. There was a sickening crack as his gauntleted fist connected, and Littlefinger slumped over, screaming as the blood seeped through his fingers.

The man raised his visor.

All she could see of him were his eyes, but she recognised him at once.

“Jon!” she gasped, throwing her arms around his middle, “I…I thought you were…gods, what are you doing out here? You should be resting! Go back inside, you need to get your strength back…”

Very gently, he pulled her hands away. He looked less like her father than ever.

“They need my help, Sansa.”

“There are enough archers as it is, Jon…please, just come inside…”

“I was never much of an archer.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, she realised what he was planning to do.

“You aren’t going to –”

He nodded.

She seized his arm and tried to drag him back to the keep, her feet slipping on the snow. “You can’t! It’s suicide!”

He tugged his arm out of her grip, more firmly this time. He strode off towards the walls, drawing his sword as he went. She ran after him, her feet sliding across the snow, tears freezing on her cheeks.

“Jon, please! We can talk about this!”

Her foot caught something half-buried in the snow and she stumbled forward. For a moment she wondered if he would come back and help her up if she cried loud enough, just like Robb used to do when she was a child.

But he was not Robb.

Jon looked back over his shoulder, but he did not even break his stride. Before she knew it he was climbing the stairs to the battlements, disappearing into the tower. She hauled herself to her feet and staggered after him.

Her ankle twinged painfully with every step. A cold breeze cut through the tear in her dress, chilling her right through. It only grew worse as she climbed up onto the walls, hauling herself up the spiral staircase one aching foot at a time.

She came onto the battlements, her heart hammering. She had to find Jon. He was delirious, he must be – the maester must have nursed him back to health but he was not well enough to fight. He would jump down into the mass of wights thinking he could cut his way through, but in reality he would be burned alive or torn to pieces…

She could not lose him, not again, not now…

There was no smoke; not any more. Almost all the wildfire had been used up, filling the air with the stench of burned flesh. All that remained of it were a few flickering tongues of green flame, waving like cobwebs in the wind.

She saw him standing on the battlements above the North Gate, where the wights were thickest. Their howling was louder than ever, and now that she was close, she could hear the sounds of their brittle fingers scraping against the walls as they tried to climb.

She ran towards him.

“Jon! Jon, wait!”

He pushed an archer out of the way, put one foot on the crenellations, and launched himself over the other side.

“ _NO!_ ”

He dropped like a stone. She heard people screaming as they saw him fall. She ignored them all and ran forward. She stumbled close to the edge, sliding along the last few feet on her knees.

She peered over the edge.

He was still alive.

He was not just alive. The wights had broken his fall and he stood atop a pile of their twitching bodies. He was hacking and slashing his way through the press of corpses, Longclaw darting through the air like a silver snake, and when the blade touched the wights’ flesh all their movements ceased.

 _Of course,_ she thought, _Valyrian steel_ …

The sword flashed close to one of the last bright flames of wildfire, and when Jon drew his sword away green flames ran along the blade. The fire seemed to fuel him; he carved a wide path through the wights with more ferocity than she had ever seen. When his fiery blade bit into their flesh the blue glow faded from their eyes, and it was all Sansa could do to keep her mouth from falling open.

He broke through the other side. Off in the distance, she could see the White Walkers – the beasts they rode little more than formless, pale shapes with too many legs – and it was them that Jon was heading for.

It was the Walkers that controlled the dead. If they could be killed, would the wights crumble into dust where they stood?

There was a scrabbling sound directly beneath her. She looked down and saw the corpse of a woman – with half her jaw missing and her blue eyes glowing – crawling up the wall towards her. Sansa stood up at once. Half the archers were staring after Jon, too.

“Keep firing!” she yelled, “we’ve got to keep them off the walls!”

She squinted into the distance. The Walkers were riding out to meet Jon. She saw the first one draw a long, thin sword made of transparent ice; it shattered beneath Jon’s burning blade, and the Walker did too. The next two tried to ride him down on two enormous, pale spiders that seemed to be all legs, teeth and eyes; he sliced the beasts’ legs out from underneath them and shattered the Walkers when they were still rolling into the snow.

A young boy with his bow still draped over his back ran up to her. “Milady,” he panted, “there’s smoke off to the south, someone’s coming up the kingsroad faster’n anything…”

“Never mind that!” she snapped, “how many arrows do we have? Are there any more jars of wildfire? I want a report from all sides; we can’t let the wights over the walls!”

He nodded and scampered off. Sansa squinted into the distance.

Only four Walkers remained, all of them riding beasts she had never seen before. Jon did not seem to care. An undead horse reared up at him, its bleached ribcage glinting in the light of Jon’s burning blade. Jon spun to the side and sliced off its head in one fluid movement. The Walker tumbled forward onto green fire and Valryian steel, and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Milady!” someone called, “look down!”

A dry, rotting hand was reaching over the battlements. Moments later the face of the wight woman lurched into view, her bright blue eyes gleaming.

Sansa let out a shriek and grabbed the nearest flaming torch. She thrust it in the wight’s face, it lost its grip and fell right down the walls, flames licking all across its skin.

There was a sudden gust of wind and a sound like leather slapping against leather. It seemed to be coming from a very long way off.

“Milady!” someone yelled, “they’re breaching the eastern wall!”

“Get more torches lit!” she screamed, “ward them off!”

She stared into the distance.

There was only one Walker now, the crowned one dressed in black. His ice spider lay headless on the ground but he was upright, holding a sword like an icicle. Jon swung his blade, and the Walker brought his ice-sword up to meet it.

It did not shatter.

The sound of battle rung in her ears, the wights’ screams and the strange leather slapping growing louder and louder. All she could smell was ash, blood, and the growing scent of smoke. But all she could see was Jon and the Walker.

She could believe all of Old Nan’s stories now. The Walker – whoever he had once been, whatever hell he had crawled from – was sure-footed, striking again and again with his gleaming blade. His ice-sword made a sound like glaciers moving whenever it struck Jon’s burning blade but he never once faltered. If there had ever been a creature that had ruled the Long Night, this was surely it.

But Jon was matching him, blow for blow. Longclaw flashed, the wildfire glittering like jewels as the flames ran up and down the blade. He forced him back, again and again, swiping at the creature’s head, at his midriff, at his arms…

A shadow passed over the castle. There was a tremendous roar.

In the distance, Jon swung his sword again. It connected with the Night’s King’s shoulder, and even from this distance Sansa could hear him splintering.

Then, there was an enormous burst of flame, and fire burst through the ranks of the wights. Three colossal dragons were circling overhead, spewing jets of fire from their mouths, and the wights shrivelled underneath their flames.

It was over.

The black one landed right in front of the North Gate, crashing into the ground, the bones of the wights crunching beneath its massive, clawed feet. Even though it stood on the ground, its massive head was level with hers. A girl not much older than her was clinging to its back, her long white hair whipping around her face.

It opened its mouth.

“Drogon, no!” the girl yelled.

It ignored her. It took in a tremendous rush of air and Sansa knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was getting ready to burn her.

And then, there was another gust of wind. All the leaves on the weirwood trees rustled her name – _sssaaaa-ssssaaaaa_ – and she thought of Bran.

The dragon closed its mouth, and lowered its head. From its back, the girl stared at her.

There was a very long silence.

Sansa cleared her throat.

“Well,” she said, her hoarse voice echoing all across the silent courtyard, “you must be Daenerys Targaryen. Would you care to come inside for some refreshment? I’ll have the servants brew us some mint tea, if you like.”

Daenerys stared at her.

From somewhere further along the battlements, she heard Tormund Giantsbane burst into laughter.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the home stretch guys! Not sure how many chapters will be left exactly, but it won't be many before it's all over now :'( As always, please don't be shy about leaving a comment - always love hearing your feedback!

Sansa was exhausted. There was a dull buzzing in the back of her head, everything ached – including her eyes – and her limbs felt so heavy that every time she took a step forward it felt like she was dragging a leaden weight behind her. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the darkened glass of a window as she passed. She looked dishevelled, with her hair tumbling out of its braid and her clothes torn and bloodied.

Nevertheless, she led Daenerys Targaryen into her solar, keeping her back ramrod-straight.

She had done her best to stall the Targaryen queen while the room was prepared. She had asked the shivering queen to gather her retinue so that she might present them to her lords formally, and to keep her dragons from harming anyone while they talked. As Daenerys mounted her dragon and went to look for her lords, Sansa did what she could. She gave the serving-women strict instructions, sent someone round to inspect the damage to Winterfell’s walls, and sent several boys running to the maester to help him with the wounded. By the time Daenerys had rounded up her retinue – her dragons swooping over the wolfswood – Sansa was halfway through thanking her lords for their loyal service in battle.

Daenerys’s retinue stood shivering on the battlements as she presented them. There were three of them: Daenerys herself, a tall, weather-beaten man who had the looks of a Mormont, and Tyrion Lannister.

Sansa had to fight to keep her smile in place.

No-one knelt for them. Her smallfolk, lords and wildlings applauded, but only when Sansa pointedly stared down from the battlements, clapping her hands in an extremely significant way. Then, they joined in, and she saw Daenerys’s eyes narrow.

By the time they reached the solar, the serving-women had outdone themselves.

There were fresh rushes on the floor, a roaring fire crackling in the hearth, and a well-placed jug of wine set on the long table. By the fireplace stood two chairs – each with a large, flat leather cushion placed on the seat – and with two heavy furs draped over the backs. Between them stood a little table, groaning with bread, cheese and lemon cakes, and a pot of freshly-brewed mint tea.

Sansa and Daenerys took one look at each other and immediately headed for the food. They both eased into the chairs like old women, sighing happily.

Sansa poured out two cups of mint tea as Daenerys wrapped the fur around herself. She was dressed in a bright blue tunic cut in a style Sansa did not recognise, with soft leather trousers and boots underneath. Her arms were bare and she pulled the fur tighter around her shoulders, huddling into it. Clearly, she had not been prepared to come so far north so quickly. Sansa wondered if Bran had brought her dragons here.

Sansa handed Daenerys the tea. She sighed into the steam, leaning back in her chair, as Sansa helped herself to several lemon cakes, her stomach rumbling loudly.

“It seems some thanks are in order,” she said, when she had finally finished licking her fingers, “if you had not arrived in time, the gods only know what would have happened.”

Daenerys sat up a little straighter. “Your thanks are not necessary. It is the duty of a queen to protect her subjects.”

Sansa smiled, taking a sip of mint tea. “Subjects? You intend to take the Iron Throne, then?”

“I intend to _take back_ the Iron Throne, Lady Stark. It is mine by right.”

She took another sip of tea. “Good luck to you, Your Grace. The Seven Kingdoms are far from peaceful. I wish you nothing but success, of course, but I fear you do not have an easy task.”

Daenerys’s purple eyes flickered in her direction.

“Forgive me, my lady,” the queen said, “it almost sounds as if you doubt my claim. But perhaps I am mistaken – I am only a young girl, who knows little of the ways of the world.”

Sansa knew that trick well. She had used it herself, more than once.

She beamed at her. “I am just the same, Your Grace. It’s such a relief to know that we can speak to each other on the same level.”

Daenerys’s eyes narrowed.

“You have been away from Westeros for a long time, Your Grace,” Sansa said, taking another sip of tea, “and it has been very turbulent of late. The War of the Five Kings tore through the continent, the Faith Militant has risen again in the south and met Stannis Baratheon’s army, and many noble houses who have ruled their lands for generations have been destroyed. I am sure that you would make a fine queen, but if you are ever to re-establish your dynasty, you will need allies.”

“Forgive me, Lady Stark, but I don’t believe I do. Aegon the Conqueror had no allies when he came to Westeros – only dragons.”

“That is quite true, Your Grace, but it was almost three hundred years ago when your ancestor conquered Westeros. Men have killed dragons since then – in the Dance of the Dragons, I believe. That is not something that will be easily forgotten.”

Daenerys leaned forward and cut herself a few slices of bread and cheese. She did not look at Sansa. “Do you seek to sit the Iron Throne yourself, Lady Stark?”

Sansa laughed. “Goodness, no. I should consider myself the luckiest girl in Westeros if I never saw that chair again.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I wish to be left in peace, to rule the North. My people have suffered long enough at the hands of the crown, and I would not see it continue. I would rule the Kingdom in the North.”

There was a very long silence. Daenerys chewed her bread and cheese slowly, clearly thinking hard.

“You do realise, Lady Stark, that I have only to snap my fingers to burn your kingdom to the ground. You are not in a position to make demands of me.”

Sansa was already smiling. She stretched her long legs out in front of her, her mind racing.

“I do believe that I am,” she said.

Daenerys raised her eyebrows.

“Your Grace, have you ever heard the old tales of skinchangers, or wargs?”

“I fail to see how children’s stories will save you, my lady – but no, I have not.”

“Never fear, I will explain. It’s an old Northern legend about men – and women – who possess the power to enter the minds of animals and have them do their bidding.”

Sansa leaned forward in her chair, her features utterly sincere.

“The legends are true. The North is full of such people.”

Daenerys let out a snort of laughter and bit into her bread and cheese. Sansa felt a flash of annoyance.

“Your Grace, after everything you have seen today, do you really doubt it? If the dead can walk, and the Walkers can fashion blades from ice that shatter steel, what makes you think that this is impossible? Did you not wonder why your dragon did not burn me to death on the battlements?”

All the laughter vanished from Daenerys’s face.

“I possess this power,” Sansa said, “as do many in my kingdom. I entered your dragon’s mind and prevented it from harming me. I could make it do anything I pleased, if the mood took me. It would not be so easy for you to burn down my kingdom then.”

She was lying through her teeth, of course, but Daenerys did not appear to know it. Her eyes were narrowed, and she was staring at Sansa in a very calculating fashion.

“I have more than one dragon,” she said, her voice uncertain, “you could not control them all.”

“Not alone,” Sansa admitted, “but the North is full of people like me.”

Daenerys sat back in her chair, her brow furrowed in thought. Sansa took another sip of tea, and waited.

“If I grant you your Kingdom in the North,” Daenerys mused, “the Night’s Watch would become your institution, and you would never be able to man the Wall. Your kingdom is a large one, my lady, but its people are few and far between. Winter always hits you hardest, and you know that there are not enough men to grow your crops and defend the length of the Wall at the same time. Then there are the repairs you shall have to make to Castle Black’s defences. Your land is not a fertile one, nor does it possess many skilled artisans – how would you find the resources, or the money? Lady Stark, you know as well as I do that only the Crown can make the Wall strong again. After what we have seen today, I think we both know just how strong it needs to be.”

Sansa took another bite of a lemon cake. She chewed slowly, so that she could buy herself more time to think. No matter which way she looked at it, Daenerys was right.

“Regardless of that, Your Grace,” she said, when she had finally finished her mouthful, “you _do_ need allies – and if you meet my demands, I could certainly be a loyal one. Aegon the Conqueror never had to face more than one kingdom in battle, as the kingdoms rarely connected to each other. I, on the other hand, am related to both the lords of the Riverlands and the lords of the Vale – and I have the heir to the Stormlands in my custody. I could raise four kingdoms against you, if you chose to meet me on the field. I should hope it does not come to that.”

“But you must see that the North could never survive on its own. I _have_ heard stories of the Long Night – the legends say that even then it took the help of the wildlings and the Children of the Forest to drive the White Walkers back. You need me as much as I need you.”

Sansa chewed another lemon cake, thoughtfully.

“Very well,” she said, “a Kingdom in the North would perhaps be too vulnerable at this stage. But I have other demands, Your Grace.”

Daenerys inched her chair a little closer to the fire, and pulled the fur closer around her shoulders. “What are they?”

“Well, I have not given up on my dreams of a true Northern kingdom so quickly. I should like to come to a similar arrangement with the Crown as the Dornish; that would suit me very well.”

“You would still have to pay taxes to the Iron Throne,” Daenerys said, very quickly, “and you would still pledge your fealty to me. But you would be allowed to keep your laws and customs, and we could come to a similar arrangement as the Dornish with regards to taxation. And I suppose you could have the title of Princess in the North, if you really must.”

“Secondly, I wish you to give me the power to formally change the nature of succession in the North. Under my new rules, a man’s lands and titles would pass to the eldest child, not the eldest son, and a woman could retain her own titles, lands and property after she is married.”

Daenerys raised her eyebrows again.

Sansa spread her hands. “Westeros is a conservative place, Your Grace. I intend to rule Winterfell in my own right; I do not wish to see any upstart pretenders making a claim to my home simply because I am a woman, or to hand over all my power once I wed. Besides, with the wildlings come south of the Wall I must accommodate their customs too. This new law would make things a good deal easier.”

“A wise suggestion,” Daenerys mused, “yes, I think I can grant you that. It may serve the realm well to see more than one woman holding some degree of power.”

“Thirdly, I want your personal guarantee that Shireen Baratheon will not be harmed.”

Daenerys gripped the arms of her chair. “The Usurper’s daughter?”

“No. His niece, actually. She’s a child of eleven, afflicted with greyscale, and is unaware that her father may no longer be with us. When it is safe enough for her to travel, I would send her back to Storm’s End and have her rule there.”

Daenerys thought for a moment. “She can return to Storm’s End,” she said at last, “but I shall appoint a Protector who will rule in her stead until she comes of age. Meanwhile, I will bring her to court, and when she is of age I shall find her a suitable husband.”

“Only if I can find her a sworn shield. Her father had many enemies; she will need protection at court.”

“I give you my word that she will not be harmed.”

“And of course, I shall need a written guarantee that the Iron Throne shall do all it can to restore the Wall to its former glory. One hundred men from each region every year shall be sent to the Wall, along with two hundred gold dragons and three cartloads full of armour and weaponry.”

“Fifty men, and one hundred gold dragons. The lords of each region find the men themselves, and the numbers can still be made up from prisoners.”

“Done.”

“Not quite. I have something to ask of you. I would name the man who fought against the White Walkers to my Kingsguard.”

Sansa’s hands clenched in her lap. “Your Grace, I’m not sure if he will accept.”

Daenerys stared into the fire. “He’s the best fighter in all the Seven Kingdoms. I’ve never seen anything like it. What better way to put his talents to use?”

Sansa forced herself to unclench her hands. This was Jon’s decision; she could not make it for him any more than she could have stopped him from jumping into the teeming mass of wights.

“That is not my decision to make,” she muttered, “but if he accepts your offer, I will not stand in his way.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last proper chapter! I'll probably do an epilogue to tie up those last few ends, but this is basically it! Thanks so much for all your feedback - I've really appreciated it :) please don't be shy about sharing your thoughts - especially for what you want to see in the epilogue(s?)

When Sansa awoke the next morning, everything ached.

Her side was smarting from where Littlefinger’s knife had brushed against it, her ankle and knees still throbbed from where she had tripped in the snow, and every single muscle in her body felt like it had been wrung out like a wet cloth. Her throat was still sore too, and when she spoke her voice was much more hoarse than normal.

But there was a hot bath waiting for her, a fire crackling in her hearth, and clean clothes waiting in the garderobe. The weak winter sun shone through her window for the first time in weeks, and she smiled. With the death of the White Walkers, winter would not be quite so bad.

She peeled off her dress – she had slept in yesterday’s clothes again – and sank into the water.

It was perfect.

Slowly, the ache started to leech out of her limbs. She could hear children squealing in the courtyard below, laughing and yelling to each other. Somewhere in the castle a man was singing. It was not a tune she knew, but it comforted her all the same.

She leant her head back against the edge of the tub and sighed, utterly content.

* * *

 

 

Her first order of the day was to receive the man who had once been her husband.

Unlike every other monarch she had met, Daenerys had said nothing about the possibility of Sansa marrying again. However, she was no fool; Daenerys had clearly brought Tyrion to Winterfell for a reason. Their marriage had been dissolved on shaky grounds – although she _had_ been a virgin when she had been given to the Boltons, she would never be able to prove it as she had not been examined by a septa or a maester. If the Queen so desired, it would not be too much work to declare Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay invalid and re-unite her with Tyrion.

She could not have that.

She had invited him to breakfast in her solar. Everything was perfect: there were clean rushes on the floor, a fire burning in the hearth, and the table was groaning with breads, cheeses, meats and a small heap of winter fruits. Outside, she could hear the sounds of a busy castle – smallfolk sawing wood, the stonemasons’ apprentices chipping away at rocks, and the distant cries of men heaving things into place.

Everything was perfect. And yet, she was nervous.

The door opened.

Tyrion Lannister limped in, looking exhausted. His eyes were red, his shoulders sagged, patches of his golden hair ended in blackened soot, and there were blisters all over his hands. Clearly, riding a dragon was much more tiring than it looked.

“Good day, my lord.”

He pulled out his chair with a scraping sound that made her wince and sat down, smiling.

“Good day, my lady.”

“Will you have some food? You must be very tired.”

“Yes, thank you.”

The fire snapped in the hearth. Sansa nibbled on a chunk of bread, nerves mounting in her stomach, and tried desperately to think of something to say.

“It’s very good,” Tyrion mumbled through a mouthful of cold ham.

“Thank you. The cooks have outdone themselves.”

“Yes.”

They ate and drank in silence. Sansa’s face was burning.

“So,” Tyrion said, pushing away his empty plate, “I suppose we ought to address the most obvious question first. Was it you who poisoned my nephew?”

Her spoon clattered onto her plate. “My lord, really! As if I would be capable of such a thing!”

Tyrion smirked at her. “Forgive me, my lady, but when I arrived in Winterfell I saw you leading the defence from the battlements and staring down an army of wights. I believe you are capable of a good deal more than you let on.”

She smiled to herself. “Thank you. But I am perfectly serious; I did not kill your nephew. Littlefinger did – I have him in my cells, if you wish to deal with him.”

Tyrion reached for his wine. “It would not have mattered if you had killed him, Lady Stark. The boy was utterly mad; someone would have done it eventually.”

Sansa tried not to look too pleased.

“So,” he said, “apart from resolutely _not_ committing regicide and fending off an army of re-animated corpses, how have you been?”

She shrugged. “Tolerable, I suppose. I dispatched the Boltons when they married me to their bastard, and Stannis Baratheon’s choice fared little better. Apart from that it’s been quite uneventful.”

Tyrion set his goblet back on the table. “And now we come to the matter at hand.”

Sansa stiffened in her seat. Her hands clenched on the arms of her chair.

“I suppose you have realised why our queen has brought me _here_ , instead of leaving me in King’s Landing.”

“Has she given you an ultimatum?”

“Oh gods, no. No, she’s been very delicate about it. She simply said that it was a great pity our marriage was so short-lived. She feels quite sure that we would have had a very long and happy life together, if only things had worked out a little differently.”

“I won’t marry you, Tyrion.”

For a moment, he looked incredibly sad. “I know.”

“Not for the reasons you think,” she said, a little too quickly. “There is too much bad blood between our families; my lords would never accept it. Besides, you would never be happy in Winterfell. Your ambition would take you south, and I have seen enough of that place to last me a lifetime.”

He nodded, reaching for his goblet again. “I suppose neither of us wanted that marriage to begin with. It would be foolish to try to resurrect something that should have never been born in the first place.”

She stood up, and he followed suit. “I think you’re right, my lord.”

He gave her a sad smile, and headed to the door.

“But for what it’s worth,” she said, “I think Daenerys was right, too. If…if things had been different, and if we had had more time, I think we could have been quite content.”

He smiled – a real smile this time, one that reached his mismatched eyes. She smiled back, and returned to her work.

* * *

 

 

She had a good deal more to do than she had first suspected.

Daenerys’s dragons had burned the wights’ remains into a crisp; Sansa had sent men down to shovel up the ashes. A steady stream of people were limping out of the maester’s chambers and he was running low on supplies; she would have to conjure up more. She had also sent a team of men down into the crypts of Winterfell, to check if any of the dead had been raised. She did not think it would have mattered even if the Walkers had awoken them – surely their power would be spent now, and in any case, the lords of Winterfell were usually buried under several feet of stone. Nevertheless, she would have to commend the men for their bravery, and come up with a suitable reward.

And these were only her most urgent tasks. Now that the Walkers had been defeated, the wildlings were anxious to break camp; she would have to meet with Tormund and decide where they could go. Her Northern lords were anxious to inspect their lands; she had sent ravens out to all of them, even the Karhold, to see if it was safe for them to return to their strongholds. Littlefinger and the woman who had tried to give Tormund’s ward to the White Walkers had both been thrown in the dungeons, and sooner or later, she would have to decide on a punishment for them. For now, she contented herself with sorting through Littlefinger’s saddlebags and retrieving her mother’s jewellery.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Come in!” she called.

Jon sidled in, a very embarrassed grin on his face. He was carrying the largest sack she had ever seen, and looked as though he was rapidly thinking better of it.

“I got you a present,” he said, before she could say anything. He dumped the sack on the table and the other end jumped upwards.

Sansa came around the table and peered into the bag. Inside was the enormous, white head of an ice spider, its many eyes glassy, brown spittle and blood frozen to its teeth.

She recoiled at once. “Oh, Jon! That’s disgusting!”

“It was Tormund’s idea. He said you could put it on the spikes over the North Gate, to replace the ones he kicked over the wall.”

Sansa bit back a smile. “That sounds like something he would say.”

Jon stuffed the head back into the bag, his face very red.

“Was that the only reason you came to see me, Jon?”

He shook his head. “No. Let’s go for a walk. We can put the head up on the battlements; I’ll tell you there.”

She shrugged, and followed him out of the room.

Winterfell was a hive of activity. The dragons swooped overhead, snapping at each other playfully. Crowds of wildlings were making their way back into the moat, carrying their skins-and-furs packs. A thin line of people trickled in and out of the godswood, half of them weeping, half of them clutching someone else’s hand. Harren the stonemason was inspecting the walls for damage. He took a step backwards to see the battlements better and smacked into Hildun, who was crossing from the castle with her mother.

“Oh gods!” he mumbled, blushing immediately, “I’m so sorry! Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

Hildun’s mother narrowed her eyes at him at once, but Hildun gave him a small smile.

“No, I’m fine.”

Sansa followed Jon up to the battlements, smiling.

When she emerged Jon was already wedging the severed spider head onto a spike, swearing frantically. He had one foot on the crenellations, and when she saw it panic fluttered inside her. Only yesterday he had launched himself over the battlements in full armour, dropping like a lead weight into the teeming mass of crawling corpses…

He gave the head one final push and stepped away. Relief washed through her.

For a while, they walked in silence, the dragons swooping over their heads. Sansa was pressed right up against the stone crenellations – her skirts bulging over the stone as they passed every dip – but she would not move over.

He glanced down at her. “You’ll fall off if you keep on like that.”

“I shall be perfectly fine.”

“Look, there’s plenty of room,” he said, shuffling over to the other side of the path, “if I just –”

“No!”

He stared at her. She cringed.

“I…I just don’t want you to fall.”

Realisation dawned on his face.

“I had to do it,” he muttered, scuffing at the snow with the tip of his boot, “we would’ve died if I hadn’t.”

“The dragons would have arrived in time to –”

“We wouldn’t have been able to hold off the wights for that long. I…I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She said nothing.

Jon cleared his throat. “The Targaryen girl – the Queen, I mean – she said she wants to make me one of her Kingsguard.”

Sansa stared down at the battlements. A few broken arrows were buried in the snow; she worked them free with her shoe.

“What are you going to tell her?”

“I’m going to accept.”

Her foot slipped. She staggered, and knocked an arrowhead over the battlements.

“We’ll go south,” he continued, “she’s already taken the capital. We’ll retake Casterly Rock for – what’s his name? It begins with – Tyrion, that’s it. We’ll secure the Westerlands, the Stormlands and the Iron Islands, and then settle in at King’s Landing. The Dornish and the Reach won’t give us any trouble now the Lannisters are gone. You’ll never believe it, Sansa – Barristan the Bold is Lord Commander! _I’ll_ be training with Ser Barristan every day! Gods, can you believe that – Sansa?”

She was crying.

She had pressed a hand over her mouth to keep herself quiet, but it had not worked. Her breath hitched, her shoulders shook, and soon the tears were flowing over her fingers.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?”

She shook her head, unable to speak.

“I…I don’t understand. I thought you’d be happy.”

“You idiot, Jon! Why would I be happy if you left?”

He was starting to look a little panicked. “Well…you know, we were never all that close growing up…”

“That doesn’t matter!” she sobbed, “after what happened to Father, and Mother, and Robb – and with Arya and Bran and Rickon just…just _gone_ , you’re all I have left! I thought I’d lost you for good when you came back from the Wall, and when you jumped off the battlements, and now I’m going to lose you again! Damn it, Jon, you’re my brother and I want you safe!”

He laid a hand on her shoulder and gave her a very sad smile.

“But I’m not your brother, Sansa.”

She sniffed. “When did you find out?”

“It’s…it’s difficult to explain. I know it sounds strange, but…but I think Bran told me.”

She scrabbled for a handkerchief. “It doesn’t sound strange. He’s told me things too.”

Jon pulled out an extremely grubby scrap of cloth from his jerkin and handed it to her. “He showed me how they met. That armour I found was hers, did you know? She nicked parts from all over the tourney to stick up for Howland Reed. That was when the…when my father saw her.”

Sansa went to wipe her eyes. Jon’s handkerchief stank of battle-sweat, and she thought better of it. “Did…did they love each other?”

He gave her a very wistful smile.

“I think they did.”

Both of them stared across the battlements. The snows were already beginning to lift. They were already sliding off the trees in the wolfswood, revealing dark green leaves beneath.

“You don’t have to leave because of that, you know,” she mumbled, “you could still stay here.”

“I’m not leaving because I have to, Sansa. I want to go. I can’t go back to the Wall, but I can’t go back to a castle-bound life, either. I’ve seen what’s out there and I need to fight it. And I’d only get under your feet here. Even after that battle your lords would still see me as Lord of Winterfell over you. I don’t want to do that to you, Sansa.”

She wiped her eyes – on her own handkerchief, this time. “But I’ll never see you again.”

“You will. The Targaryen girl – the Queen, I mean – she said she wants to travel all over the Seven Kingdoms as much as she can, to make sure they’re all secure. She said when she goes north, she’ll take me with her.”

Sansa felt a sudden flash of gratitude towards Daenerys Targaryen. Perhaps her new queen would not be quite so severe after all.

Jon cleared his throat again. “So, do I have your blessing?”

She snorted. “You sound like you’re going to marry her.”

He went so red that she couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Not like that! I meant to go south, you know that’s what I –”

“I know.”

She stared down into the courtyard and let out a heavy sigh.

“I can’t say I’m happy about this, but I think you might be right. I couldn’t stop you if I tried – and I’d rather we parted as friends. So yes, you have my blessing.”

He pulled her into a hug and she felt another lump form in her throat.

“Just be careful. I’ll make the Queen tell me if you do anything stupid and if you do, I’ll head down to King’s Landing and you’ll be in so much trouble.”

He let out a little chuckle, and held her a little tighter.

* * *

 

 

Within a week, Jon had left.

Daenerys, Tyrion and Jorah had gone south on their dragons. They would fly to the capital, formally induct Jon into the Kingsguard and then head west to take Casterly Rock. The snows were already starting to clear, but both Sansa and Daenerys had agreed that it was not yet safe enough to send Shireen down to King’s Landing, so she was to remain at Winterfell.

It was for the best, Sansa thought. They had finally had some news of Stannis’s army. He had met the Faith Militant in battle and been badly wounded, and in a bid to cure him, the Red Priestess had given him to a pyre. They said that she had been convinced he would be reborn from the flames, and that she had screamed when he died. Both she and Selyse had been driven mad. Selyse had run off and had been seen by no-one since, but the Faith had found Melisandre.

If the accounts were true, her death had been truly twisted.

Of course, Sansa had told Shireen none of the details. She had told her that her father had died an honourable death in battle, and that it was likely that her mother had died alongside him. Shireen had taken to her room, refusing to come down for meals, and Sansa had given Wylla strict instructions not to leave her alone.

She would recover, in time. It would be difficult – Sansa knew that from experience – but Shireen had too much of her father in her not to recuperate. And in the meantime, she had received a raven from Ser Davos, who was convalescing in a monastery near the Trident. He had sworn to protect the little princess, and Sansa had already sent a ship down from Whiteharbour to bring him north.

Her lords were leaving Winterfell, too. After the wights had crossed the Wall, they were anxious to inspect their lands. The ravens – if they returned – had all brought bad news. Much of the North’s population north of Winterfell had been decimated by the wights. The Umbers, the Glovers and much of the peoples from the New Gift would be far fewer in number, and she had yet to hear anything at all from the Karstarks. Of course, with their lands and holdings ruined and their smallfolk scattered, her lords would be a good deal less powerful now. There would be no more talk of her needing to find a suitable husband when they needed to rebuild their castles.

But she had a plan for that, too.

Even Petyr Baelish had gone: she had sent him back to the Vale with the last of his knights, and sent a raven to the Eyrie to tell of his treachery. The maester said his jaw was broken, and had bound it shut with cloth and wire; she doubted he could talk his way out of trouble now. He would be Sweetrobin’s problem – or rather, Lord Royce’s problem – and she was sure he would be dealt with accordingly.

There was a knock at the door of her solar.

“Come in!”

Tormund Giantsbane shuffled in. He looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him – a little of the intensity had eased out of his eyes – and the second he saw her he beamed at her.

“There y’are, hen. You been hobnobbing with the dragon queen?”

“Forgive me, Tormund – hobnobbing? What exactly does that mean?”

He looked sheepish, running a hand through his wild hair. “Doesn’t matter. Nothin’ bad.”

She led him over to the fire. “How’s your boy coming along? He didn’t catch a chill?”

“He’s a tough old thing,” he muttered, grinning, “cold never even touched him. He remembers you, though. Keeps trying to grab anyone kissed by fire. Nearly took a chunk out of my beard.”

She smiled. “He’s a smart boy. He knows we’re lucky.”

“That we are, hen. Me most of all.”

“How so?”

Tormund scuffed the floor with his shoe. “Met you, didn’t I?”

She felt herself turn scarlet. Tormund was resolutely not looking at her.

“The lot of us would’ve froze to death without you. Or been killed by your southern bastards. Hildun’d be dead for sure, and my boy…”

He stopped, swallowing heavily.

“We might be kneelers now, but we’re kneeling to someone who won’t kick us when we’re down. And we’re south of the Wall, and all your lords are falling over themselves trying to get us to go off back to their castles with them.”

There it was.

She had been planting the suggestion in her lords’ minds for days, and it appeared to have taken root. 

“Will you go?”

He shrugged. “Gotta go somewhere, haven’t we? None of my lot can agree on where to go anyway; I’ll let them go where they please as long as I can see them settled in. That Glover’s an uptight bugger, but he’s honourable enough, and the Greatjon’s not so bad.”

She cleared her throat and stared into the fireplace.

“I meant…will _you_ go with them?”

“I’ll have to. Want to make sure they’re all settled good and proper. Good houses, good land.”

“And afterwards?”

There was a very long silence.

“I’ll come back here, if you want me to,” he muttered.

She smiled. “I’d like that.”

“You would? But I’m not fancy like your southron lords, why would you –”

“Gods above, Giantsbane! I’ve had enough of fancy southron lords to last me a lifetime! You are one of the few men I have met who has not treated me as a prize to be won, who has not tried to coddle me like a child and shelter me from my duties, who has not doubted me! Why should I care for a fancy southron lord when I could have a man who treats me with respect, who listens to my counsel, who knows my strength and does not fear it?”

He grinned at her. “You’ll have me, will you?”

She grinned back. “Yes, I _shall_. Settle the wildlings well, Giantsbane. Make sure they’re safe, and happy, and well cared-for, and then come straight back here.”

“Could take years.”

“Then you’d better hurry up, hadn’t you?”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Before she knew it her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer, his arms wrapped around her so tightly it felt like the walls of a fortress.

They broke apart. She grinned at him.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Giantsbane.”

He grinned back. “I wouldn’t dare.”


	17. Epilogue(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the epilogue! Hope you guys all enjoy it :) Thanks so much for sticking with me through this series - it turned out way longer than I expected! As always, feedback is very much appreciated, so please feel free to leave some :)

It had been a month since the Battle of Winterfell, and the last of the snow had melted. The smallfolk were moving out of Winter Town and back to their villages, a steady deluge of melted snow and ice was seeping into the fields and rivers, and the Princess in the North had let it be known that when she married, no man would take her title. Her prospective husband – whoever he may be – would be her Consort, and never her prince.

All her lords’ proposals had dwindled off after that.

Now, she stood outside Shireen’s room, knocking on the door.

“Princess? May I come in?”

There was no answer. She unlocked the door and found that the room was dark and cold. Shireen lay on her bed, curled up in a pile of furs, and she would not look at her.

“Princess,” she said, “let me light a fire for you. You can’t stay here like this, you’ll catch a chill.”

Shireen said nothing. Sansa lit the fire anyway – it was already stacked in the hearth – and sat down on the end of Shireen’s bed.

“Wylla tells me you haven’t been eating.”

Shireen said nothing.

“Your father asked me to care for you, Princess. I won’t see you starve.”

“You’ll see me handed over to the dragon queen,” Shireen rasped.

Sansa flushed. “I won’t abandon you.”

Shireen said nothing.

Sansa cleared her throat, very loudly. “I have a visitor for you, Princess. He wishes to be your Protector. I have told him he shall be, if you deem him worthy.”

Shireen gave a bitter little laugh. “Does it matter if I deem him worthy? I’m your prisoner. He’s my jailer.”

From over her shoulder, Sansa heard hesitant footsteps in the doorway.

She spoke very gently. “You are not my prisoner, Princess. You know that.”

“And I’m no jailer,” came a voice from the door.

Shireen sat up so fast it was as if she was on springs. She reeled, blinking rapidly, stared at the man in the doorway, and promptly burst into tears.

Ser Davos hobbled across the room, his face taut with pain. When he reached her bedside Shireen threw her arms around his middle and howled into his stomach, her whole body shaking.

Ser Davos patted her on the top of her head. “There now, Princess, don’t cry. Look, I made you something.”

He reached into the pocket of his jerkin and pulled out a small wooden doe. He handed it to her, an unbearably hopeful expression on his face. Shireen took it, her hands shaking, and clutched it tightly as she sobbed all over his leather jerkin.

Sansa got up. “I have some duties to attend to. I’ll be back in an hour with a meal, Princess, and I expect you to eat it.”

Davos gave her a little smile and Sansa shut the door behind her.

* * *

 

 

It had been three months since the Battle of Winterfell. Green shoots were beginning to poke through the dark, damp earth. Only the castle servants remained in Winterfell now; the rest had gone back to their villages. All except Hildun, who had taken a shine to Harren the stonemason, and Hildun’s mother, who remained behind to disapprove.

Sansa threw Littlefinger’s latest letter into her pile of kindling. Queen Daenerys had taken Harrenhal from him, Lord Royce had removed him from his role as Lord Protector, and the Faith Militant had destroyed almost every ‘establishment’ he had owned. He was penniless, friendless, still found it difficult to speak, and had written her several letters begging her for help.

She had ignored them all.

* * *

 

 

It had been nine months since the Battle of Winterfell. The sun was shining, she had finally taken a layer of furs off her bed, and Sansa’s first crops had come through larger than she had ever thought they could be. The melting snows had given them all the water they could need, and her shoulders had sagged with sheer relief when she had seen how much they would have.

The first batch of recruits for the Night’s Watch had passed by Winterfell. She had stood on the battlements with Brienne, Shireen and Davos and watched them pass. There were more men than she had ever seen going to take the black, and they all looked fit and strong. Cartloads of weapons and supplies followed in their wake, and she knew the Wall would be strong because of it.

Another cartload of people pulled up to Winterfell’s walls that day. It was considerably smaller than the Night’s Watch, and only contained a wiry-looking spearwife, an enormous direwolf and a boy of about six years old with unkempt hair.

When he had seen her, he had leapt off the cart and run straight towards her. He had smacked into her middle with all the force of a lightning strike, howling.

“Mother! Mother!”

She held him, and looked up at the woman. For a moment, the spearwife looked incredibly sad, but then she shrugged, her face becoming carefully blank.

“Brought the little lord back, just like I said. You’re his ma, you take care of him now.”

Hope fluttered in her chest.

She knelt down quickly and peered into the little boy’s face. She had to pry his arms away from her just to look at him, and when she did so his direwolf growled.

It was unmistakeably Rickon.

“Rickon, sweetling, it’s Sansa. It’s your sister.”

Rickon’s face fell. He buried his face in her skirts, wiping dirt all over her dress.

She did not care.

* * *

 

 

It had been a year and a half since the Battle of Winterfell, and Sweetrobin had finally come to visit. He sat astride a white horse looking taller than she remembered, the Knights of the Vale behind him, and Lord Royce’s bronze armour winking at his side.

When she greeted him, Shireen stood at her side. She would travel south soon, and had become very nervous. She had taken to wearing her hair in elaborate, one-sided styles, in an attempt to cover the greyscale on her cheek.

Sweetrobin was utterly fascinated with her.

Ser Davos watched them walk and talk together, both of them seeming more grown up than ever, and Sansa saw him blinking back tears.

* * *

 

 

It had been two years since the Battle of Winterfell, and the castle was bustling. It was a long, slow evening the likes of which the North had not seen in a long time, and Sansa’s keep was filled with her lords and ladies. There were southerners here too – even the Queen and her Consort, Loras Tyrell, had come to visit – and Sansa did not have to look into their rooms to know that later that night every single one of them would be shivering beneath the furs on their beds, even though it was well into spring.

Sansa would be married in a matter of hours. Brienne and Jon were in her chambers, trying to convince her otherwise while a bevy of servants surrounded her, lacing up her gown and pinning up her hair. Brienne was polishing her breastplate so forcefully it almost looked as if it had offended her, and Jon’s white cloak was sweeping a wide, clean trail through the rushes on the floor.

“But he’s so old!” said Brienne, gesturing with her polishing rag, “old enough to be your father!”

“He _is_ a father,” snapped Jon, “he told me! He has two daughters grown, Sansa!”

“I am aware,” she said, as a serving-girl twisted a lock of hair into place, “he’s told me so himself. He told me he fathered them when he was too young to grow a proper beard.”

Jon faltered in his pacing, trying to imagine Tormund without a beard.

“Apparently the girl’s father broke his nose for it,” she continued, “she was only a little older than Tormund herself. They weren’t much more than children, really, but they did what they could. Theon fathered more children than Tormund has, and did considerably less for them.”

“He’s not getting any younger,” Brienne muttered.

Sansa let out a snort of laughter. “Show me a man who is!”

“He’s a _wildling_ , Sansa!”

She shot him a very sharp look, and turned to her servants. “Would you be so kind as to give me a moment alone with my brother and Brienne?”

They left at once, leaving Sansa alone before her looking glass. Her hair was arranged in an elaborate knot of braids and coils, her white dress immaculately laced and pressed, and her mother’s sapphires glittered around her neck. She looked more like her lady mother than she had ever done, and a lump came into her throat.

She turned to Jon and Brienne.

“I’d thank you not to discuss your opinion of my marriage in front of my smallfolk,” she snapped, “it’s no concern of theirs.”

“It’s a concern of mine! I mean… _Tormund_ , Sansa? Really?”

“He’s still a wildling,” muttered Brienne.

She let out a snort of laughter. “Half my smallfolk were wildlings once – they’ve settled all across the North and they’re just as valuable to me as the rest of my people. And you’re in no position to object, Jon. I know all about poor Ygritte; you are the _last_ person to be lecturing me about falling in love with wildlings.”

“That was completely different!” he spluttered, blushing, “I wasn’t…I didn’t have the North to think of, I didn’t have to worry about carrying on the family name – you _have_ to think about these things, Sansa!”

“I am _always_ thinking of these things, Jon. Be reasonable! There’s still tensions between the wildlings and the Old Northerners – if I marry Tormund they’ll listen to my authority just as much as his. If I married a ‘proper’ northern lord House Stark would disappear forever and all my power with it – you know it would, Jon, they’d want to re-negotiate my marriage settlement and be the Prince of the North. Tormund has no family name and no interest in playing with southron power. He will be my Consort, not my Prince, he’ll take my name and House Stark will continue just as it always has.”

Jon sat down on the bed, his armour clanking. “You really have thought about this, haven’t you?”

“Of course I have. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Brienne said nothing.

“It’s just…” Jon said, “you haven’t had a lot of luck with marriage, Sansa. I want to make sure you’re going to be happy. You’ve got some good reasons for marrying him, but...don’t you want to marry for love?”

She gave him a long, searching look.

She had seen the way he looked at the Queen. She had also seen the way the Queen’s eyes always seemed to drift back to Jon, no matter where she looked. She had seen the way Loras Tyrell resolutely ignored his wife, only giving her a perfunctory smile when she turned to him, and then letting his eyes follow a tall, blond squire all around the room.

There was a soft curve to Daenerys’s belly. Sansa had no doubt that when the child was born, its hair would be much darker than Loras Tyrell’s.

Jon was still looking at her, a very worried expression on his face. Of course, she realised, _he_ would never be able to marry for love at all.

“I do love him, Jon,” she said, her voice softer now, “he’s kind, he’s honest, and I can read him like a book. He’s so good with Rickon, and the Greatjon thinks the world of him. He’ll be good to me, I know it.”

“There’s a hungry dragon with his name on it if he isn’t,” Jon muttered.

She smiled. “I know that, too.”

* * *

 

 

“You nervous, hen?”

“No, no, I just…would you like a drink? I had some wine brought up, just in case…”

“You’re nervous.”

“Well, I…perhaps a little, but it’s nothing to worry about, really…”

“You’re shaking. Here, sit down.”

“Thank you.”

“We don’t have to do this now, pet.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Course I do. But not when you’re like this.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m just being silly…”

“You’re too sharp for that. Don’t be sorry.”

“It’s…it’s just…it’s just the only time I’ve done something like…like this…well, it was only ever with…with Ramsay, and he always made it hurt…”

“Hey, now. It’s all right. We don’t have to if you don’t want to. You’re in charge here.”

“I am? You don’t mind?”

“Course not.”

“Well…would you mind if you just held me for a little while?”

“C’mere, hen.”

“Thank you.”

There was no more talking after that.

* * *

 

 

The first assassin came three years after the Battle of Winterfell, when spring was in full bloom, her larders were overflowing, and her belly finally began to swell. It would not be long before the child was born now – perhaps only three or four months – and both Brienne and Tormund were flatly refusing to leave her side. They came everywhere with her, like a pair of surly handmaidens, and it was they who first saw the assassin.

It was an old man she had never seen before. He was hobbling towards her, smiling, and was barely feet from her when Brienne let out a shout and pushed her away. Tormund caught her, swearing frantically, as the knife flashed forward and clanged into Brienne’s armour.

The man’s head was on a spike within the hour.

The second one came shortly after. She sat in the Great Hall, ready to break bread with her lords and ladies. Her food taster – a boy of fourteen – took one spoonful of her broth and began to splutter, his face slowly turning purple.

“Fetch the maester!” she yelled, as someone began to scream, “no-one eat anything!”

The maester did not come quick enough. The boy was dead within minutes, and half the broth in Winterfell was dumped out into the wolfswood.

They never found the assassin, but Sansa thought she knew who might have sent him. Petyr Baelish had stopped sending her letters, and not one month ago she had let it be known that she was with child.

Brienne stood guard outside her door every night. Rickon tried to accompany her – he worshipped Brienne – but when his eyelids started to droop Brienne had sent him to bed. He had only agreed to go after leaving Shaggydog posted outside her door, lying stretched across the corridor like an enormous rug. Tormund insisted on keeping several throwing axes within arm’s reach – some on the nightstand, and some under the bed, just in case somebody saw the ones on his nightstand and moved them out of his reach. He had tried to put some in the bed with them, but Sansa had flatly refused to allow it. Instead, he slept curled around her as though trying to shield her.

After that, something strange began to happen.

If she saw people darting towards her in a crowd, suddenly they would stop, and fall down dead. When she walked along the battlements and saw a man rushing towards her, ready to push, something struck him in the neck and he collapsed, twitching and frothing at the mouth. Once, a serving-girl who she had never seen before had slapped a goblet of wine right out of her hands, and when it had spilled across the floor it smoked along the stones.

Then, one day, she found that a large sum of gold dragons had been stolen from the Winterfell coffers. Almost two thousand gold dragons had completely vanished, and no-one seemed to know where it had gone.

When she got back to her chambers that night, there was a scroll of parchment on her table. She unrolled it, and began to read:

_This contract between the House of Black and White and Lady Sansa Stark, Princess in the North and Lady of Winterfell, doth hereby record the aforementioned Lady Stark’s contract of protection procured from the House of Black and White for the sum of two thousand gold dragons. Let it be known that the House of Black and White shall engage an acolyte to protect the Lady Stark from all harm from this day until her last day in exchange for the said sum, which shall be…_

Her vision was beginning to blur. She felt her baby stir inside her as a lump formed in her throat.

Arya was at the House of Black and White. Was she the one who had been foiling the assassination attempts? Was it her who had stolen from the Winterfell coffers, and written out the contract?

She glanced back down at the contract. It was not signed, but a sigil had been stamped on the parchment in black and white wax. All that it needed was her signature.

She read it through again – just to make sure – and signed it. She set it back on her bedside table and waited to see who would collect it, but soon her limbs grew heavy and her eyes began to close.

When she awoke, someone had tucked her safely into bed, and the contract was gone.

* * *

 

 

Four years after the Battle of Winterfell, her baby was born.

She swore all the way through.

Her smallfolk scattered out of her way, as if she had just grown another head. Brienne turned scarlet just listening to her outside the door. A few days later she caught Rickon with a list of everything she had said, and blushed to the roots of her hair.

Tormund had just looked bizarrely proud.

* * *

 

 

It was ten years since the Battle of Winterfell. Summer was in full bloom. Her two eldest children were in the yard, playing at swords with Rickon. He was as fierce and wild as ever, but a fighter like none had ever seen. Not too long ago Ser Barristan the Bold had died – Jon had sent her an inconsolable letter all about it – and soon Queen Daenerys would hold a tourney to find his replacement. Rickon intended to win a place on the Kingsguard, and had been training every day for it.

Her two eldest boys – Robb and Eddard – were under the impression that they were helping.

Her youngest sat in her solar with her and Tormund, while she checked through her inventories. Jon – a boy of three – was tugging at his father’s leg and whining for a story, his mop of red hair tousled. He would not be her youngest for long; her belly was starting to swell again, and she hoped that this time it would be a girl.

“I want a story, Papa!” Jon whined, “a proper one with swords and fighting and monsters and…”

“All right. Once upon a time there was a wee mouse who could dance and sing and his name was…”

“I don’t _want_ another Marwyn the Mouse story! They’re not real!”

“You used to like my Marwyn the Mouse stories,” said Tormund, sounding a little crestfallen.

“I want a new one. A real one! Tell me one that’s true!”

Sansa smiled at him over a report from the armouries. An idea dawned on Tormund’s face and he lifted Jon onto his knee.

“I’ll tell you a story about your Ma,” he said, grinning over at Sansa.

Jon looked very puzzled. “Mama hasn’t been in any stories.”

“Oh yes, she has. See, your Ma’s very brave. When I met her I came down from the Wall with all the other wildlings. Your Uncle Jon let us through.”

“Jon who’s got my name?”

“That’s the one. We were being chased by these big, horrible ice monsters who rode enormous spiders and could –”

Jon was starting to look very frightened. Sansa cleared her throat pointedly and Tormund got the message.

“Well, they were bad,” he continued, “and they froze everything. So we came down south to get away from them, but there weren’t no lords south of the Wall that would take us in – only your Ma. Her lords and ladies didn’t believe in the White Walkers – that’s what they’re called – and they said she were being silly. But she’s a clever lady, your Ma, so she didn’t listen to ’em.

“One day all them White Walkers got over the Wall too. So your Ma took everybody inside the castle what was too small to fight and gave everyone else arrows and wildfire to fight ’em off. It worked too – they didn’t come over the castle walls once, even though they tried something fierce. But then one of the big White Walkers jumped right over the walls and tried to give your Ma a kiss.”

“Why did he do that?” Jon asked, his eyes wide.

“Cos she’s a beauty,” said Tormund.

Jon nodded seriously, as though this explained everything.

“Anyway,” Tormund continued, “this big old White Walker tries to give your Ma a kiss and she says ‘no thank you’ and stabs him with a magic dagger she had. And he exploded into a million, million pieces.”

Jon’s mouth fell open.

“And then, when the rest of them came, your Ma fought ’em off from the battlements and your Uncle Jon jumped down off the walls and fought ’em on the ground. And then the Queen came along with her dragons to save the day, only your Ma and Uncle Jon had already done that. And then your Ma and the Queen had a chat and sorted things out, and then everything was all right.”

Jon stared over at Sansa as if she had just grown wings.

“And the moral of the story is,” said Tormund, stretching his legs, “always ask girls nicely before you give ’em a kiss, and mind you listen to your Ma.”

Jon nodded, very seriously. There was the sound of running feet outside the door and Robb and Eddard burst into the room, panting and covered in sweat.

“Jon!” they yelled, “Uncle Rickon says he’s going to play piggyback jousting with us and we need a fourth man and you have to come now, Jon, hurry up!”

Jon was out of his father’s lap and toddling after them before she could blink. Her boys sprinted out the door in a whirl of red hair, shrieking with laughter.

“Be careful!” she called after them, but they were already gone.

She stood up, stretching. Tormund crossed the room and gave her a little kiss, one hand on her stomach.

“How’s he treating you?” he asked, rubbing the curve of her belly.

She smiled. “Well enough. And it’ll be a _she_ this time, Giantsbane. You mark my words.”

He put his arms around her and she leant into his embrace. The lines on his face had deepened, but his arms were still as strong as ever. She was growing older, too. Her back ached from carrying the weight of the baby, there were bags underneath her eyes that had not been there last year, and the late nights in her solar seemed to take more out of her than ever.

But she did not care, and nor, it seemed, did Tormund.

The pair of them crossed over to the window and watched their children playing in the courtyard, utterly content.


End file.
